The Lightning Room With M. R. Sheffield

Stay awhile and listen to M. R. Sheffield (story in the Nov. issue) describe herself on a beach surrounded by strange men, running from swords, and what follows her heart in quotes. Maybe forgiveness?

1) Imagine a sunrise. You are a child surrounded by strange men. Describe the sunrise.

For some reason we’re on this beach and it’s beautiful, of course: it’s a sunrise – it’s yellow and red and pink; it’s purple and it’s blue and it’s gold, but the men are shuffling their feet in the sand, dirtying their nice shoes, and I’m worried when they get to work they will look scuffed – scuffed and faded as a sunrise – but something about them wearing suits on a beach in their nice shoes watching the sunrise makes them less threatening than maybe they would be otherwise, say if we were on a boat in the middle of the ocean, say if we were locked inside a mall together fighting zombies; they are more vulnerable for their finery, like peacocks bent nearly double by the weight of double breasted suit.

2) At the end of a long hallway you see a beautiful figure holding a long, delicate sword. What do you do?

First things first – any time weaponry is brandished, you run. You run run run run run. I don’t care how beautiful the creature is. The figure is. I don’t care how smooth skinned or lustrous haired. Maybe the figure is a being is a creature is beyond-human or subhuman nonhuman monstrous-human human-human or inhumane. Run. It doesn’t matter if the voice calling you is as bird song. Run when she or when he or when it slides the sword, so delicate, from its sheath. Long hallways are bullshit meant to hypnotize. Don’t fall for it, run for it, dummy, lest your body be torn asunder. Lest your heart in all its power falter.

3) The voice changes at the end of test, it asks for forgiveness and asks to forgive. It stays in an instructive mode. Describe the reason for this change.

It was you at the end of the hall, there on the beach – it was always you and you were always-already waiting for the space to pull your body through the eye of a pin – you, generous in your condemnation (of me, of yourself, of all the wriggling, incomprehensible living things), hear a note suspended that hits and splits the universe into every atom of your sentience – which is to say you wake up, clouded, burning eyes, and, you know, smell the coffee or whatever (it’s delicious, organic and shit, dark roast, locally produced), and then you and then you and then you see with caffeinated clarity the truth sans capitalization that it’s always-already been true that me and that you are both the beauty with the sword and the sword itself; are both the turning away to run and the running itself; are every step inexorable death – are every moment burning.

4) Take the first three words from three separate items in your wallet or purse, write a sentence about your writing process using these words.

Check, earn, member

I don’t necessarily feel like a member of a writing community, although I am one – I so often feel outside of things, even if it’s because I’ve relegated myself to being outside (which, if it’s chosen seclusion, does it even count? And what about the fact that I work in an English Department and have set up a creative writing group – how outside then, prevaricator?) – mostly I don’t feel good enough to be, like, a member of this imagined writing community which exists and does not exist and is beautiful and wonderful and intimating and kind of incredibly great. As for having earned my place, I don’t know – I’m probably self-deprecating to a fault – one of those annoying bitches who’s all like “this is shitty” really, really hoping you’ll say “no, no, it’s not,” which is probably harsh, but I am harsh on myself. I have to check that impulse when I’m writing – if I “followed my heart” or whatever (which, yes, definitely needs to go in quotes) I’d probably delete everything. Probably. Maybe not, because writing, for my anyway, is so much self-loathing and briefest shimmer of hope.

5) You are walking down the street. Two boys are poking a small, injured animal. You try to help but they kill it before you reach them. Describe what you’re wearing?

My sister’s old jeans are too big on me, but I like that they are too big, because a lot of my own clothes are too small, now, and so it’s comforting to have to hitch them up, pull them to my waist as I walk, holding the elastic to my waist – it gives me a thing like a rope to pull, to hold on to, to drag me forward when I’m thinking sword – I’m thinking run.

6) Do you forgive yourself?

I try to, but then I circle back and come up with a reason not to, and then I do again and then I don’t want to – I think forgiveness is over-rated. No, I don’t think that. I think forgiveness is tough. I think it doesn’t happen – I think there is a reconciliation, maybe? A renegotiation of what’s true? And that can be like a forgiveness. And a forgiveness of myself. Sometimes I can see myself as a human, trying, reaching, straining – and then I can have some sympathy for this creature. And then I can think about forgiving.