The Slush Pile

Old Portland is new again. Or perhaps, Old Portland lives within slices of fog if you know where to look.

I heard about The Slush Pile from Monika Drake. A bi-weekly-ish drop-in reading series hosted by Chuck Palahniuk, held in a garage that offers all manner of artsy events. It’s a moody, vibey place graciously hosted by a groovy artist couple.

I read Chuck’s post about the Slush Pile. It seemed like it was open to the public, but I’ve accidentally crashed both a wedding and a funeral, so I like to triple check.

I returned to the post three or four times and decided to go in two weeks.

When the next session rolled around I decided not to go and then I decided to go and and then not. I re-read his post and talked myself back into it. His words were filled with encouragement.

The first week that I psyched myself into going, the room was so crowded I had to sit in a folding chair that was too small for my body, the chair too big for the walkway I sat in. I held my little square of paper in my purse, folded. I checked it from time to time as if it might have turned to ash as I awaited my turn. Chuck had said in his post as well as before the readings began that there was no time limit per se, but to pay attention to the energy of the group and stop when you know you ought to. Regardless of his suggestion, there is always a social contract about taking up too much of whatever is available, be it time or resources.

I grew up the youngest of six kids and we had limits on everything including the amount of time in the bathroom on weekday mornings -fifteen minutes- as well as how long the water could be on during that time -five minutes- . I will never not keep track of everything and I still take five minute showers.

One element of the social experiment that is the Slush Pile is that one person is chosen to start and when they've read they choose someone from the audience whose raised hand indicates they have pages to read. People choose their friends which makes sense, but beyond that, who knows why anyone chooses anything. Nonetheless, the schoolyard vibe of being not picked is never not uncomfortable.

The first night I went, people read longer than any reading I've attended. Most of the stories were in the ten to fifteen minute range. One person read for 22 minutes. It was a long time, especially when so many people brought pages to read, but that is part of it. Letting things unfold. When the three hours were up, a handful of people, including myself, had not gotten to read. Chuck said we could have our names added to the next week, that we could go first.

Two weeks later I had a different story ready but I did not have the ego strength to participate in such a social experiment.

Two more weeks later, repeat the prep, repeat reading Chuck's latest post. Repeat prepping a new story. Repeat whittling it down. A fifteen page essay, cut in two then shaved down to twelve minutes, with places timed as endings in case the energy waned.

The space was less crowded and it seemed that there were fewer folks with pages, but in that space people sort of spread out each story to fill the void.

While I was waiting for the readings to begin, Kelly, a woman I met at a Writers Mixer, mused that it was such a gift to hear words that might otherwise never be heard. Totally, I thought -- she went on. She said that for many of these writers, this may be the only time that their stories are ever heard. I hadn't thought about it like that. Kelly was an obituary writer in the past, so I imagine that informs her perspective.

I thought about my Grandpa's book that he left behind. A completed memoir about his time in the Navy that he shared only with his mentor at Evergreen. There are so many obstacles in writing, in expressing yourself and that's just the beginning. The million tiny steps between writing and publishing are so arduous, few people arrive there. I was devastated when I learned that most writers have at least one completed manuscript in a box in a closet.

As I listened that night, I took special care to think about each person doing the quiet work of tending to their words on the page and all that it took for them to arrive here and read. When the stories went overlong, I tried to picture where each person wrote, what their motivations and dreams were that inspired them. I tried to stay as present as possible while they took their turn to be heard.

I almost stopped raising my hand because it was so embarrassing and vulnerable. I kept thinking about Chuck, who sat behind me stationed against the wall. He has a quiet electric field within him, lightly charged, that makes me think he must've got ahold of an electric fence as a kid. There is an impossibly low hum like when you are coming up a power station. He had said earlier when I asked about how long we should read for, he replied "Don't over think it!" Impossible for me, but the perfect encouragement, open hearted and open ended.

The better part of me knows that not getting picked is not personal, that it means nothing, but everything means something. I constantly circled back to my number one rule for living a good life "Don't take it personally" Great in theory and generally I can pull it off, but vulnerability decays ego strength.

Each time the readers swapped from just read to about to read, I did a lot of self talk. It's not personal. they don't even know your work. It's gonna be great. You are beloved. Your ancestors support you. I would shake it off, then another round of not being picked, which I know means nothing, would threaten a tight throat. I had the thought maybe someone could read my embarrassing internal pep-talk. I turned and scanned the room for psychics and realized it's an impossible fear. I'm pretty psychic and I can't read people's thoughts so specifically, so I let that go.

As the three hours was near an end, it was just me left with my hand up. The person choosing saw my hand and continued scanning for others, when he realized there was just me, he pointed my way.

I read my pages.

Someone said it was pure poetry. Someone said it was funny. Someone said I did great. Someone just said sexy, her words exaggerating the S sounds.

Krissy, one of the best storytellers and definitely the most entertaining person in the room, came up to me after to exclaim. "That was not boring at all!" She said other nice things, but that one true thing meant a lot.

People stayed inside to mingle, but I booked it outside relieved it was over and grateful for the group of witnesses. My first fiction. Only the fourth time I’d ever read to a a gathering of humans beyond the many writer’s groups I’ve been in the last fifteen years.

As I waited for my ride, two guys loudly quoted their favorite lines from what I had just read as they walked past me on their way out. The gift of going last.

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