If you have a question about this book not already answered below, please feel free to contact Phyllis.How is this book different from others on "homelessness?"
Books about homelessness tend, on the one hand, to be pretty theoretical; written by social scientists and the like, they reach a fairly limited readership.
On the other hand (and more rarely), books about homelessness are experiential, written by someone who became homeless because of an addiction or mental illness. Unfortunately, such "homeless voices" are often distrusted, if not dismissed altogether, by the general public. Our book, written as it is by two "ordinary" people who voluntarily gave up their homes for a period of time, seems to serve most readers as a bridge of greater understanding between themselves and truly homeless persons.
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What point are you trying to make with the book?
We're not really trying to make a point. We didn't set out, for example, to convince the reader of a particular point of view regarding "the politics of homelessness." We are, rather, just trying to tell a story, immersing the reader in the chaotic, broken life of the streets. The telling is intensely personal yet, we hope, powerfully universal as well. (Is this why some readers have described the book as "life-changing?") What, if anything, a reader of the book chooses to think or do in response to our story is not for us to say.
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You mention "Lent" in the subtitle. Is this a Christian book?Our book is intended for Christian and non-Christian readers alike. (James and I are generally interested in
human beings, quite apart from labels.) However, we did plan our time on the streets to coincide with the Christian observance of Lent and Holy Week, because we suspected that such a spiritual backdrop might bring into sharper relief the myriad things we might experience. That certainly turned out to be true. But again, that backdrop needn't pose an obstacle to non-Christian readers. James and I wanted to make this book highly accessible and worked hard toward that end. When we hear from all kinds of readers that the book is "eye-opening" or "enlightening" or even "life-changing," the feedback is very gratifying.
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Did you go to the streets intending to write a book?
Before we went out, James and I naturally considered chronicling our time on the streets through his photography and my writing. Our artwork could be a companion on the streets as it was elsewhere in our lives, challenging us to greater awareness. We understood that the work might someday shape-shift into a book that other people could grapple with, wring some blessing from, but we didn't dwell on that possibility. The last thing we wanted to take to the streets was a confused mix of motives. So we went to the streets prepared to pick up the pencil, to shoot the picture, but agreeing that we'd actually do so only if it helped us
be more present. Our first night on the streets was—to be frank—hell. It so traumatized us that we were tempted to quit and go home; paradoxically, however, it also convinced us that we were exactly where we had to be, doing what we had to do. And part of what we would have to do, if we somehow managed to remain on the streets, was produce the book that until then had been merely a shadowy prospect. We would have to speak up. Of this, we were now certain. If only in a limited way, the book might portray how being without a real home can devastate the human spirit—after a single night, we already had some sense of this. Then, too, such a book might inspire its readers to reflect on their own ability to be more present, more compassionate, in their small corners of the world.
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What was it like, co-authoring this book with James?
Before I answer this, let me show you two photos of James, the first as he usually looks and the second as he appeared when we left the streets.
Now to your question. From my point of view, writing this book with James was a fascinating process, for at least three reasons. First, James and I were both faced with the daunting task of trying to put into words—into
effective words—something that felt inexpressible; something that had torn us up pretty badly yet also taught us essentials. It was hard for either of us to get perspective on what had happened to us, let alone what might be said about it. So, just as we had on the streets, we found ourselves doing a lot of talking with one another, and crying together, and laughing together, and disagreeing together, and struggling together, and being silent together. The deep sharing was vital to the process. Next, while I had published other books, James was a novice at writing book-length manuscripts. As do all co-authors to some extent,
we brought very different eyes and skill sets and stylistic tastes to the writing task, all of them valuable in their own way, many of them requiring negotiation, the continuous finding of middle ground. I learned much from James, as I have from my other co-authors, while doing that. Finally, in the midst of the writing process, both James and I moved: he to Massachusetts, myself to South Dakota. For better or worse, much of this very intense creative work had to be done at half a continent's remove. As a result, the process became much clumsier, but perhaps in the end the manuscript benefitted.
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Did you keep notes or a diary on the streets?
Notes, yes, although by the time we finally read them, some were either illegible or unintelligible. While on the streets James and I would write notes on whatever paper we could find, with whatever writing utensil we could find, whenever and wherever we felt compelled and rested and safe enough to jot something down. Then, every so often, once a week maybe, I'd arrange to meet a certain friend at the Ohio statehouse. She and I would each go into the women's restroom, enter adjoining stalls, and I'd slip her all the notes James and I had written such we'd last met. My friend would take the notes home, and without ever having been asked, she'd deposit them (unread) into a large manila envelope, date it, file it. When James and I came off the streets, she delivered to me a box containing all those notes, all organized in chronological order. I'm still immensely grateful to my friend for doing this. When James and I were finally ready to write, we each used those notes individually to reconstruct our days on the streets. Next, we wove together our two narratives. Gradually, after many, many drafts, one primary narrative and one primary voice emerged from those first fragments.
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Why did you choose a "day-by-day" format for the book?The chronological approach simply felt more natural than others. James and I came off the streets in early April, 1999, yet we didn't begin writing until late October. It took us eight months to feel like we'd recovered enough physically and emotionally to undertake the work. During that time, friends and relatives asked us countless questions, scarcely any of which were theoretical or general. Instead the questions were almost always experiential and particular. People wanted the
story. And that's what James and I needed to give. Not analysis, but story. Telling the story, both orally and in writing, proved therapeutic. It still is, frankly, even after all these years, as we continue to give public talks and such.
I should also say that the book's chronological approach makes it an excellent resource for persons or groups doing daily meditations or devotions. Christian readers can "'walk the streets" through Lent and Holy Week, while other readers can do so by calendar day.
You might be interested to know that one editor at a publishing house wanted us to take a more topical, less chronological, approach to the book. James and I revised and published the book's first edition following that advice, and we regretted it. In the second edition we returned to our original format.
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Why do a lot of the photographs in the book look so strange?
You're probably referring to the photographs that James took using pinhole cameras he made from trash while on the streets. Here, to illustrate, is one of those photographs, taken of me on the steps of St. Joseph Cathedral as mass was letting out.
The swirls of light are actually parishioners passing by during the long photographic exposure. (James describes some of his pinhole camera-making and photographic process in the book.) Because of the process used and the conditions under which they were shot, the pinhole photographs are crude, blurred and impressionistic, just like much of our streets experience. You'll never know just what James went through to shoot them for you. In some sense, though, the task of shooting them was a saving grace for James, helping him keep his sanity. I've heard him say this more than once.
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Isn't this book as much about spirituality as the streets?James and I assume that faith is inseparable from compassion, and spirituality from social concern. Much contemporary literature on spirituality is rather inward, even self-involved, while much social concern literature totally neglects the spirit of the individual. James and I insist on the inseparability of the spiritual and social dimensions of life.
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