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.

Here’s what we learned about good food writing, the publishing process, and ourselves.

What makes for good food writing?

A food writer works like a chef and incorporates basic writing elements in new ways. A strong sense of storytelling, sensual images, compelling characters, a fresh sense of place—all these classic writing ingredients are found in the best food writing. The food itself is another character in the story: sometimes the hero, sometimes the villain, memorable in whatever role it plays.

Stories that took us on unique journeys—not just to a restaurant or kitchen table, but to a vivid, compelling, particular place in a writer’s life—were the ones that made it into the book.

Why do people write about food?

One of the most intimate ways you experience life is through food. You take it inside your body; it’s life giving. Life’s most important events always include food: first dates, the night you become engaged or break up, weddings, holidays, funerals.

Food stimulates the senses, and memories are often triggered by food smells—the yeasty aroma of bread that reminds us of Grandma’s house, the tang of citrus that calls to mind a particular summer. The simple mention of a certain food or the scent of a familiar dish wafting through the air is enough to transport us to memories and experiences in which that food was involved, whether good or bad.

Writers use food as a way to explore memories, relationships, and events that connect us all. It is a way to dig deeper into an experience. As complexities reveal themselves during the food experience, we use writing to think deeply about what the food represents, and go beyond the sensory experience to reveal new truths.

Essentially, food is one way we connect—whether in shared meals or passed-down recipes. Writing is another way we share our human experiences. It’s just natural that these two activities—food and writing—come together.

Why do we like to read about food?

Food writing is accessible to a wide range of people. We may not have other hobbies in common, but we all eat, we all share meals, we’ve got this human sense of taste that is always seeking out new flavors, new stimulation. Food writing is a way to be an armchair diner at someone else’s table.

Reading about food always makes us hungry—to create new food experiences with our own families, to make new connections, and to eat something great. That, ultimately, was our goal in publishing the anthology. We found the selected stories inspiring, and we wanted to share that with other readers.

What was it like coediting an anthology?

Coediting requires trust, teamwork, and commitment. And lots and lots of communication. With so many tasks—culling through submissions; selecting and editing them; writing our nonfiction book proposal; signing with an agent; working with her as she went through the submission process; creating, maintaining, and updating multiple online sites—there was always plenty to do. And ultimately when we decided to self-publish, we took that relationship to another level. We needed to make agreements about the amount of time and resources we were going to commit to get the book published, whether we were going to publish at all, and eventually how to arrange for a cover, copyediting, and publicity.

How did that work?

It is definitely a lot of work and coordination—and not for everybody. The process requires tremendous patience. And, as we mentioned, trust.

The two of us have a unique skill set: We both have project management and document skills from our days working together as marketing writers. We know how to manage a large document with lots of contributors. We know the rudiments of writing press releases and publicity information. But more than that, we trust each other to make good decisions and value each other’s input.

Finally getting the collection into print was the easiest step. Building our nonfiction proposal and going through the process of trying to get the book picked up by a publisher (during the economic downturn!) was the hard part.

We were delighted to find that both of us have an innate ability to sell the book. We networked to get on the inside track with independent bookstores and other retail locations and placed newspaper articles whenever we could. The end result was beyond our original goal of just getting the book into print: our book was our publisher’s number two travel book during November (the peak of holiday buying); we even placed third in their November sales contest.

It just goes to show that if you feel passionate about something, it’s easy to have the motivation to let everyone know about it, and get everyone you can behind it.

What are the dynamics of having two editors?

Melissa Koefod

Being part of a team forces you to take a second look at things you might pass over. Each of us can think of an essay that the other didn’t even notice at first, but is now a favorite in the book.

We kept each other motivated and focused. One could take the lead when the other felt overwhelmed. Our abilities complemented each other, but we shared one key goal: how to bring these wonderful stories to readers.

What were your most successful methods of gleaning work?

Susan Doffing

The collection was inspired by an essay by former Loft Mentor Program participant and Loft teaching artist, Anika Fajardo. During one of our writing group meetings, Anika read her story “Eating Crêpes in Colombia.” We had a crazy idea that there were more stories out there. We just had to figure out how to find them. So, we started networking, using our connections in the Twin Cities literary community. We posted our call for submissions at the Loft and at all the local colleges and universities. We also posted on Craig’s List in Minneapolis, San Francisco, and New York, and with listserv at the University of Pennsylvania. We paid for an ad in Poets & Writers (all the others were free), which gave us a lot of great submissions.

We set up a website, blog, and Facebook and Twitter accounts where we could post information about the project, develop our platform, and build our future audience. We also kept our eyes peeled for potential writers or crêpe stories in the media that might fit with our project. We asked our friends and they asked their friends.

Now that the book is out, readers are telling us more crêpe stories, making us wonder if Let Them Eat More Crêpes should be our next project together.

Melissa Doffing and Susan Koefod live and write near the Twin Cities in Minnesota. They were drawn together for this anthology by a hunger for good writing and crêpes. Doffing enjoys reading and writing in a variety of genres and is currently trying her hand at fiction. Koefod works during the day as a business writer and moonlights as a poet and novelist. Both can be contacted via eatingcrepes@gmail.com. Web address: www.eatingcrepes.com.

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.