After work yesterday and today at lunch I wrote the beginning of a new chapter for the novel I'm currently working on, Painting Over Mistakes. It felt so good to have an oasis of creative writing between writing the first draft of the ECE and the group-anthology SCE followed by returning to the ECE after my mentor makes comments. Writing these pages is a taste of the semester after the ECE is accepted and I'll turn from critical to creative work for a while.
It's also good to be writing new material. It will need to be edited heavily, I am sure, but so many bad habits have been replaced by good ones since I started my Spalding MFA work. Now rewrites can focus on deeper issues, such as character development, the chapter's structure, and how they both fit into the novel as a whole. And more fun: I'm writing the chapter in second person (you: the ashamed I), and it is set in Manhattan in 1970, 1987, and 1992/4.
Should a person have this much fun working? Yes, yes, a person should. And this person is very happy about her status.
Friday, June 22, 2012
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
There’s Got to be a Shortcut Here Somewhere
When I was a kid on a Sunday every summer it would be Ohio County day at Beech Bend Amusement Park in Bowling Green, Kentucky. There would be posters in every store window in Beaver Dam and Hartford, and you could get a free pass into the park. The pass also meant a few free tickets for rides. At the park my parents would eventually run into people they knew who had endured as much of the heat and the noise they could stand and who would give us their leftover ride tickets. Other than gas (cheap then) and snow cones and hot dogs, the day was pretty much free for my folks.
As that Sunday approached, the excitement would build for my brother, sister, and me. We'd finally ride the 45 minutes to Bowling Green, talking about the animals in the small zoo, the games we could play and the prizes we’d win, and the rides: the Tilt-A-Whirl and the Whip and the Wild Mouse. The latter one, a rickety-looking roller coaster, I never rode. But I could spin and snap on the other two until I was so dizzy and whiplashed I could barely walk.
We’d arrive in Bowling Green’s city limits, ready to go straight to the park. And then we'd be sunk. We’d forgotten about my dad’s annual search for the shortcut to Beech Bend, a shortcut he insisted had to exist. He’d start the search immediately. We'd fuss, of course, but Momma would hush us. For what seemed forever, the five of us would drive in circles in our car, windows down because there was no air conditioning. We kids were recalling how long the search had taken in years past and another obstacle that might delay us once we’d reached the seemingly-endless one-lane road that would take us into the park. Every year at least one car would break down and need to be pushed to the grassy median, slowing traffic even more. We’d finally pass that car, sitting there on the side of the road, steam rising from its radiator, glad our car hadn’t done that. We knew the sooner we got to Beech Bend’s entrance road, the sooner we could be past all obstacles and on the rides. Finally we'd start to fuss again, unable to be quiet any longer, and Momma would tell Daddy to go on to the amusement park. He’d give up on the shortcut until the next county day at Beech Bend. And the scenario would play out in pretty much the same way it did every year except as I grew older I became wiser and carried a book to read.
Years later as a college student I picked up a map at a service station in Bowling Green, and I discovered that there had never been a shortcut because all the roads were cut off due to the river and the railroad. A map, what a concept!
Monday, March 26, 2012
Listening for stories
In One Writer’s Beginnings, Eudora Welty wrote: "Long before I wrote stories, I listened for stories. Listening for them is something more acute than listening to them. I suppose it’s an early form of participation in what goes on. Listening children know stories are there. When their elders sit and begin, children are just waiting and hoping for one to come out, like a mouse from its hole."
One time over a matter of a week, a couple of mice got into my house. For months and even years after, my cat, Luke, would sit by the place where the hole was stuffed, waiting for another one to come in. He never gave up.
As a kid, I was the cat watching for a mouse, the kid listening for a story. I remember sitting on my great aunt's lawn in McHenry, Kentucky. My younger siblings were playing elsewhere. But I was in one of those colorful metal chairs that's back looked like a tulip, my legs dangling. I was with the adults, waiting, listening. And those adults delivered with stories and reactions and a side helping of humor. The only thing that slowed them from telling stories was the whistle of a passing freight train, which they'd have to wait to pass in order to hear. Maybe that's why today I turn down the volume of the television when I hear a train in the distance. I've always thought it was about a restlessness, a desire to travel and be elsewhere. It might be in part. But perhaps I also connect the train's whistle to storytelling. Next time I hear a train, I'll pay better attention to what comes next. A story might jump off one of the cars.
One time over a matter of a week, a couple of mice got into my house. For months and even years after, my cat, Luke, would sit by the place where the hole was stuffed, waiting for another one to come in. He never gave up.
As a kid, I was the cat watching for a mouse, the kid listening for a story. I remember sitting on my great aunt's lawn in McHenry, Kentucky. My younger siblings were playing elsewhere. But I was in one of those colorful metal chairs that's back looked like a tulip, my legs dangling. I was with the adults, waiting, listening. And those adults delivered with stories and reactions and a side helping of humor. The only thing that slowed them from telling stories was the whistle of a passing freight train, which they'd have to wait to pass in order to hear. Maybe that's why today I turn down the volume of the television when I hear a train in the distance. I've always thought it was about a restlessness, a desire to travel and be elsewhere. It might be in part. But perhaps I also connect the train's whistle to storytelling. Next time I hear a train, I'll pay better attention to what comes next. A story might jump off one of the cars.
Friday, March 23, 2012
2nd and Church--It's a Literary Location
Attention Writing Friends, Nashville and Tennessee Friends, Spalding Friends, WKU Friends, Reading Friends! The inaugural issue of a new literary journal was launched this week. Meet 2nd and Church. Publisher Roy Burkhead is a Spalding M...FA grad, a WKU grad, and a fabulous writer. Obviously a lot of work and sweat goes into a new literary journal--and perhaps some pain. From Roy's blog: "It was around the end of May of this year when I was near the intersection of 2nd Avenue and Church Street, and I was remembering my desire to create a literary journal that would focus on Nashville and Middle Tennessee. It was also on this day in May when I was hit by a car in the crosswalk." Click the link below to learn more about 2nd and Church.
http://2ndandchurch.com/
http://2ndandchurch.com/
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Back to the blog...
I last posted a blog entry here in August 2009, a few months short of two years. About three months after that blog entry, my dear Luke passed away and I posted his picture. Since then, nada. Yes, sometimes I've thought about blogging and sometimes I've felt bad about not blogging. I'd say guilty, but I was too out of time and energy to blog and I knew somewhere deep inside that one of the things that had to go was the blog. I had a long commute, 70 miles each way, to work from Bowling Green to Nashville. I'd had an apartment in the city, but being gone from home three to four nights a week proved to be too much--especially after Luke died. I wanted to be with Jordan (Luke's sister) and knew she needed me near her. Plus I desired to use the rent and utility money for tuition. So, the apartment went bye-bye.
A year ago, I started my first residency in a brief-residency MFA in writing program. Near the end of that first residency, we heard a fabulous lecture about social media, especially as it pertained to writers. I wanted to get back to my blog then--but alas, I was soon buried by short critical essays, original writing, reading for a literary journal--things I loved--and one thing I grew to dislike: the ongoing commute. The only redeeming qualities for the time I spent on the road were that I had a good job that I enjoyed (once I arrived at my office) and audio books that melted the miles under my wheels, at least on most days. In the end, even the written word couldn't save the situation. My last day in that job was nearly a month ago.
My second residency with the MFA program started two days after the last day at the former job. It was a time of great blessing, a chance to immerse myself in my craft in the few days I had between the end of one job and the beginning of another, which started the day after I came home. Five days later I flew to NYC for four days of soaking up the city's energy. A week after that, I sit at a Mac in Nashville, editing this blog I started during my second MFA residency. I'm in a blogging class at Watkins, a class that I signed up for weeks ago, just before my last day at my old job. I knew if I didn't, I would be worn out and would not come to the class, but here I am and I'm glad to be back to my blog.
Though this blog entry may be unspectacular, it nevertheless has a certain shine: it's a new beginning and a promise to blog fulfilled--albeit late. Since I started writing this entry, there have been lectures and workshops and readings attended, reports written, assignments and evaluations completed. There were friends to see, both at the residency and at home. There were miles on planes and on the road.
Tomorrow, I begin my new life, focusing on writing and reading photography, health and family and friends, travel and cooking, all the things I love. Actually today I begin, with this blog entry. Wonder and wander with me.
A year ago, I started my first residency in a brief-residency MFA in writing program. Near the end of that first residency, we heard a fabulous lecture about social media, especially as it pertained to writers. I wanted to get back to my blog then--but alas, I was soon buried by short critical essays, original writing, reading for a literary journal--things I loved--and one thing I grew to dislike: the ongoing commute. The only redeeming qualities for the time I spent on the road were that I had a good job that I enjoyed (once I arrived at my office) and audio books that melted the miles under my wheels, at least on most days. In the end, even the written word couldn't save the situation. My last day in that job was nearly a month ago.
My second residency with the MFA program started two days after the last day at the former job. It was a time of great blessing, a chance to immerse myself in my craft in the few days I had between the end of one job and the beginning of another, which started the day after I came home. Five days later I flew to NYC for four days of soaking up the city's energy. A week after that, I sit at a Mac in Nashville, editing this blog I started during my second MFA residency. I'm in a blogging class at Watkins, a class that I signed up for weeks ago, just before my last day at my old job. I knew if I didn't, I would be worn out and would not come to the class, but here I am and I'm glad to be back to my blog.
Though this blog entry may be unspectacular, it nevertheless has a certain shine: it's a new beginning and a promise to blog fulfilled--albeit late. Since I started writing this entry, there have been lectures and workshops and readings attended, reports written, assignments and evaluations completed. There were friends to see, both at the residency and at home. There were miles on planes and on the road.
Tomorrow, I begin my new life, focusing on writing and reading photography, health and family and friends, travel and cooking, all the things I love. Actually today I begin, with this blog entry. Wonder and wander with me.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Monday, August 31, 2009
A weekend day for every week day
Today I'm wondering, what if we had a weekend day for every week day? I always come in on Mondays hyped up, ready to go. Then by Friday I'm exhausted and ready to just go away. I'd take a three-day weekend to a four-day (32-hour) week even. It wouldn't be equal, but it would be great.
I'm just off a fabulous weekend, as you probably guessed, and I'm trying to hold onto the good vibes.
I had the thrill of accomplishment when working on two essays that I need to finish and submit for possible publication. That filled a need as deep as the need for rest, which I also did.
On Saturday, I cried a lot. This was a good and cleansing cry. And a grieving cry. The Kennedy family has been instrumental in my development as the person I am today. I know about their shadow side, and I suppose with great achievements and talents comes great flaws. But it's those achievements and talents I admire, especially in their public service to the poor and underprivileged and those without voices. They could empathize and sympathize and have compassion for the people on the fringe of society. And their faith, especially that of Rose, helped me to find a faith of my own, one that deepened during the hard times, one that was grounded in something real. I watched the funeral mass for Senator Kennedy and later in the day the services in front of the Capitol and at the grave site, and I cried and sometimes sobbed. Not only has the last of Joe and Rose's four sons been laid to rest and the next to last of all their children, but something else died with Ted, something I can't quite put my finger on yet. I cried for that something as much as the loss of the man. Thank you, Teddy, for your
On Sunday, I listened to an audio book titled, A WEEKEND TO CHANGE YOUR LIFE. I'd listened to Joan Anderson's other book last week, A YEAR BY THE SEA, and was left with questions and a gnawing disappointment more than anything. That's why I didn't expect much from the Weekend book. At first, it did seem pretty basic. But something caught and now I need to listen to it again--or maybe I need to read it. The book gave me a theme for my day.
COURAGE.
In order to live the life I want to live, I may need to summon the courage to do some things that society frowns upon (nothing illegal or immoral, of course). I may need to do that which practical people, those who live comfortably in the way the world says things should be and who never question that way, won't understand. But what if that's the only way to the path I'm supposed to be on?
And this isn't easy for me. I spent years being the person who comformed to society's norms. Being radical, making choices outside the rules, that wasn't me. But America's founding father's broke the rules and stepped outside the norm of society and their government; to those in charge of the norm, they were traitors, their every act illegal. Hitler's actions, though obviously horrendous, were mostly legal, at least at first and then later when he created the laws. They were sanctioned by the people in his country, sometimes by their silence. It's hard to tell which direction to go sometimes, except freedom and love and kindness seem to be good guides.
In many things, rules are meant to be broken, but only, after you first understand them. And society's norms change with the times. Skirts used to be long and covered the woman's form; now women wear pants. Slavery was legal here, now it's unfathomable that it existed. No one thinks much now about mixing peanut butter and chocolate, but at one time a commercial about that enthralled us. Nothing is written in stone. Things change and then a new normal begins. And when it comes to writing history, it's the ones who live outside the norms who are remembered. Does that tell us anything? Oh, man, I need another weekend to think about this.
I'm just off a fabulous weekend, as you probably guessed, and I'm trying to hold onto the good vibes.
I had the thrill of accomplishment when working on two essays that I need to finish and submit for possible publication. That filled a need as deep as the need for rest, which I also did.
On Saturday, I cried a lot. This was a good and cleansing cry. And a grieving cry. The Kennedy family has been instrumental in my development as the person I am today. I know about their shadow side, and I suppose with great achievements and talents comes great flaws. But it's those achievements and talents I admire, especially in their public service to the poor and underprivileged and those without voices. They could empathize and sympathize and have compassion for the people on the fringe of society. And their faith, especially that of Rose, helped me to find a faith of my own, one that deepened during the hard times, one that was grounded in something real. I watched the funeral mass for Senator Kennedy and later in the day the services in front of the Capitol and at the grave site, and I cried and sometimes sobbed. Not only has the last of Joe and Rose's four sons been laid to rest and the next to last of all their children, but something else died with Ted, something I can't quite put my finger on yet. I cried for that something as much as the loss of the man. Thank you, Teddy, for your
On Sunday, I listened to an audio book titled, A WEEKEND TO CHANGE YOUR LIFE. I'd listened to Joan Anderson's other book last week, A YEAR BY THE SEA, and was left with questions and a gnawing disappointment more than anything. That's why I didn't expect much from the Weekend book. At first, it did seem pretty basic. But something caught and now I need to listen to it again--or maybe I need to read it. The book gave me a theme for my day.
COURAGE.
In order to live the life I want to live, I may need to summon the courage to do some things that society frowns upon (nothing illegal or immoral, of course). I may need to do that which practical people, those who live comfortably in the way the world says things should be and who never question that way, won't understand. But what if that's the only way to the path I'm supposed to be on?
And this isn't easy for me. I spent years being the person who comformed to society's norms. Being radical, making choices outside the rules, that wasn't me. But America's founding father's broke the rules and stepped outside the norm of society and their government; to those in charge of the norm, they were traitors, their every act illegal. Hitler's actions, though obviously horrendous, were mostly legal, at least at first and then later when he created the laws. They were sanctioned by the people in his country, sometimes by their silence. It's hard to tell which direction to go sometimes, except freedom and love and kindness seem to be good guides.
In many things, rules are meant to be broken, but only, after you first understand them. And society's norms change with the times. Skirts used to be long and covered the woman's form; now women wear pants. Slavery was legal here, now it's unfathomable that it existed. No one thinks much now about mixing peanut butter and chocolate, but at one time a commercial about that enthralled us. Nothing is written in stone. Things change and then a new normal begins. And when it comes to writing history, it's the ones who live outside the norms who are remembered. Does that tell us anything? Oh, man, I need another weekend to think about this.
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