I and my friends are helping to build a library at my sister's retirement center in Atlanta, GA. I don't mean I'm doing any sawing or hammering. I donate books to the library which the residents are already enjoying. At first I heard that only hard cover books would be accepted, but found out later there is a section for paper backs in good condition. I only have one problem. The books I collect from friends call me to look at them, read the inside dust cover, and then I want to keep them for myself. Of course I come to my senses and realize I have more books on my shelves now than I'll be able to read unless I live to be 100. Tonight I'm drawn to keep The Double Bind by Chris Bohjalian, a psychological literary thriller. This is the author of Midwives, a Publishers Weekly Best Book and an Oprah book club choice. The first two pages grabbed me and I will have to finish it before it goes to the library shelf at Somerby. This book is based on a story of a homeless man's death and the box of photographs he left behind. This part is true, but the rest of the story is fiction, I understand.
Reminds me of Mike Keller who found an old leather wallet at a flea market and upon searching through it, found old, old, letters crumbling but readable with a story that begged to be told. She wrote a poem. Now is this a found poem, a letter poem, a persona poem or what?
Our other Team member, Nancy, might tell us.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Poems by Glenda Barrett
Glenda Barrett from the north Georgia mountains, is a widely published poet and writer. Her chapbook, When the Sap Rises, will be published by Finishing Line Press in the spring of 2008.
I asked for a couple of her poems to share with you. Her true mountain voice is heard in each one.
Echoes
I cannot silence
the talk of war,
a rising drug market
or the cries of the homeless.
Yet, sheltered in the Appalachians,
I can be grateful for simple pleasures:
the surprise of the first snowflake,
a newborn colt on wobbly legs,
wild violets in the spring,
pink sunsets over blue mountains,
bales of hay in green pastures,
and a freshly plowed garden patch.
Yes, I am only one,
but I can follow in the footsteps
of my faithful ancestors,
people who were truthful,
who said what they meant,
and meant what they said,
who held firm to their beliefs
and rose above their hardships.
People whose voices still echo
across these Blue Ridge mountains,
I was born here, and I'll die here!
The Flight Homeward
As the wild geese lift
from the water's edge
and slowly rise above
the Blue Ridge mountains
covered with morning fog,
I watch their silhouette
against a deep, blue sky.
Deep inside, a part of me
longs to reach higher and higher
to leave some kind of lasting memory.
Maybe, it will be nothing more than
a glimpse of me living my simple life,
just as I've witnessed the geese
soaring across the horizon.
By Glenda Barrett, Hiawassee, Georgia
I asked for a couple of her poems to share with you. Her true mountain voice is heard in each one.
Echoes
I cannot silence
the talk of war,
a rising drug market
or the cries of the homeless.
Yet, sheltered in the Appalachians,
I can be grateful for simple pleasures:
the surprise of the first snowflake,
a newborn colt on wobbly legs,
wild violets in the spring,
pink sunsets over blue mountains,
bales of hay in green pastures,
and a freshly plowed garden patch.
Yes, I am only one,
but I can follow in the footsteps
of my faithful ancestors,
people who were truthful,
who said what they meant,
and meant what they said,
who held firm to their beliefs
and rose above their hardships.
People whose voices still echo
across these Blue Ridge mountains,
I was born here, and I'll die here!
The Flight Homeward
As the wild geese lift
from the water's edge
and slowly rise above
the Blue Ridge mountains
covered with morning fog,
I watch their silhouette
against a deep, blue sky.
Deep inside, a part of me
longs to reach higher and higher
to leave some kind of lasting memory.
Maybe, it will be nothing more than
a glimpse of me living my simple life,
just as I've witnessed the geese
soaring across the horizon.
By Glenda Barrett, Hiawassee, Georgia
Friday, January 25, 2008
Nancy Simpson joins the Team
Nancy Simpson, poet and writer, teacher and mentor to many, will join me in writing posts to this blog. Look for her posts in the coming days.
Nancy's poetry books are Night Student and Across Water. She was program coordinator for NCWN West for 13 years. She serves as consultant to Netwest.
Nancy's poetry books are Night Student and Across Water. She was program coordinator for NCWN West for 13 years. She serves as consultant to Netwest.
Second and final edition of String of Pearls by Nancy Purcell.
Meanwhile, Ellie had emptied the glove compartment without finding any tissues. She began folding old oil change receipts, inspection check-up sheets, and flattening folded pages in the ownership manual. After studying the registration certificate, she started putting the papers back in the compartment.
“Oh, yes. The flat tire,” he said, picking up his train of thought. “Well, anyway, I changed the thing myself and it made me realize that, sixty-nine-years-old or not, age was just a state of mind.” He smiled at her, as if expecting a reply.
She blinked a few times then fixed her eyes on him. “What are you talkin’ about? How’d you get from ‘Let’s get married’ to a flat tire in 1988?”
“Could’ve been ’89.”
“I asked the simple question, ‘What’s your middle name?’” Ellie said, “and you go on about a flat tire—coulda been 1988, coulda been 1989, coulda been right front, coulda been right rear. Lord, Russell, and you just said I talk gibberish. Ain’t that just like a man? By the way, do you have allergies?” He shook his head no and she continued returning things to the glove compartment. A gold charm on a chain with a key attached caught her eye. It was on of those key rings sold in gas stations and gift shops, the kind with every name from A-to-Z hanging on a spinner. Ellie turned it over. ADA was painted in bright red letters. “Thought you said your wife’s name was Frances? Who’s Ada?” She dangled the key chain in front of his face.
“Ada? Where the heck did that thing come from?” He reached for it but Ellie pulled it back. “I just want to see it. Maybe it’ll refresh my memory.”
“Russell Featherstone, you’d better come clean. I’ve got no intention of marrying a man who’s a two-timer. My sister Callie married one of those and lived to regret it. Had four children by that man, kept a clean house, and cooked every night. No matter. He still couldn’t keep his pants zipped.”
Upon hearing the word “zipped,” Russell asked, “Honey pie, did you unzip that outside pocket when you were looking for your hanky?” He motioned with a finger to a zipper on the front of her handbag.
Ellie’s eyes flicked to his face, then down at her bag. “Don’t believe I did.” She pulled the silver tab and withdrew a pale blue handkerchief. “You’re so smart, Russell,” she said, leaning toward him and pecking his cheek.
A broad grin covered the old gentleman’s face, as if he was finally on firm ground and could return their discussion to the core issue: marriage.
“That’s what surprises me,” Ellie went on. “Smart man like you takes a lady out for a drive in his big-fancy-Texas-oilman car with all intentions of proposing and leaves evidence of another woman in plain sight.” She slowly reached for the fan dial and turned it down.
“Wasn’t in plain sight. You found it when you were poking around in the glove compartment. Remember?”
Ellie fingered the key chain, turning it over and over. “What kind of car did she have? Or maybe I should say does she have?” Now she was swinging the key back and forth. Outside tumbleweed dancing across the terrain caught her eye. I love dancing. Wonder if Russell likes to dance?
“Ellie Pickett, you are one frustrating woman. How the hell do I know who Ada was? Could have been a friend of one of the grandchildren. Could have been one of those nurses I carted back and forth to care for Frances. Heaven help me if you ever find a phone number scratched on a piece of paper and I can’t remember whose it is! Guess once you say you’ll marry me, I’ll have to examine every nook and cranny of my house or you’ll change your mind.
So . . . I guess he’s planning on moving me into the same house he lived in with Frances. Now that would be just too strange. What if the furniture’s in poor taste? Lord, Leland hung on to that ratty old sofa of his mamma’s like it was spun from gold.
The couple was so engrossed in conversation they never noticed the car that had pulled up behind them. A knock on Russell’s window caused both of them to jump in their seats and their mouths to drop open.
“Sorry if I scared you, sir,” yelled a fortyish man with hair tied in a ponytail and a tee shirt that read “Viva Zapata.” “I just wondered if you might need help. You know, maybe needed a cell phone or something?”
“No, no,” Russell said. “We’re fine. Thank you for stopping.” He had cracked the window and now abruptly closed it and turned the air-conditioning up a notch. He made the mistake of asking Ellie, “Where were we?”
“I was gonna say that that’s how Callie caught Edgar.”
“Stranded on the side of the road without a cell phone?”
“No, no, silly. A phone number on a slip of paper. See, she was cleanin’ out his pockets, gettin’ his pants ready for the dry cleaners, and she came upon a slip of paper with a phone number and a woman’s name written on it.” She looked down at the key ring. “Name could have been Ada for all I remember. Wouldn’t that be a coincidence?” She closed her fist around the key. Poor Callie, she told herself. She never did get over that. Threw him out and then had to work at that cotton mill ten hours a day. Ellie opened her fist. “If you really don’t know Ada, then I expect you wouldn’t mind if I opened the window and tossed this away, would you?” Her finger tapped on the window control button.
A look of relief crossed Russell’s face. “Be my guest. Throw it out. Bury it, if it’ll make you happy. Then let’s get back to discussing something important, like marriage.”
Ellie studied him: he was still a good-looking man, one of those men instantly recognized as a quality person. His gray hair was combed back, sort of longish, and his full mustache was neatly trimmed. She’d been taken with him since that first Sunday after she’d arrived from South Carolina.
It was right before church when Barbara had voiced her surprise plan: brunch with her
father at his country club. When they entered the clubhouse foyer, there he sat; quite dashing in a green sport coat and khaki pants, his boots highly polished. For some reason Ellie’s stomach had fluttered, but at the time she attributed it to gas. Now she noticed the twinkle in his chestnut brown eyes. So why this nagging fear of giving him the answer he wants?
It wasn’t because her daughter would be upset, or because she—Ellie—didn’t want to let go of her old life. Truth was she wanted nothing more than to leave that other life. It’s why she’d flown a thousand miles to Texas. Hoping to find something she’d missed.
She had loved Leland but she was only eighteen when they married. What did she know about life, about anything? She’d never traveled anywhere, other than a visit to the State House in Columbia. Besides, Leland was a homebody, a worker; travel held no excitement for him. So Ellie packed away her dreams like too-small clothes, saving them for another day. After Lisa’s invitation, Ellie aired out those little dreams and carried them to Texas. Now she wondered if her hesitation was nothing more than the fear of beginning a new life chapter. Her fingers worried across the letters A-D-A and she decided to throw her caution and the keychain to the Texas winds.
Ellie pushed the window button and flung the key chain as hard as she could. As the window slid noiselessly to a close, she said, “And don’t you be drivin’ out here to mile marker 142 searchin’ for that thing!”
Russell took her hand in his, brushed her fingertips with his mustache, then kissed them. “Does that mean your answer is yes?” He waited.
“Let’s just say I’ll give you my answer after you’ve told me what those longhorns are about and answered my other question.”
“Which one?”
“You know. I asked if you were a sex maniac.”
“Well, the first one’s easy; I put them there because I could. When I was a youngster every rich Texas oilman had longhorns on his car hood. I decided if I ever hit it big that’s what I’d do. And I have, so I did. Whenever I look at them they tell me, ‘Ease up, Russell. Grab life by the horns and live a little.’ Which is why I'm working so hard at roping you in.” And he pinched her cheek.
“I’m still waitin’ for the answer to my other question.”
“Now that one’s going to be more difficult. You’ll have to marry me and find out for yourself!”
Ellie giggled, reached over, and ran her fingers through his hair. “You’re a handsome devil, know it?” She kissed him and then wiggled herself down into the seat.
Russell hit the directional signal and pulled onto the highway. Twenty minutes later he looked over at her and chuckled. “What number did you say that mile marker was?”
Sweetness painted Ellie’s face and she answered in a sing-songy voice, “Maybe it was 124, or it coulda been 241. Nope, I think it was 142. But I’m not certain. Anyway, I imagine my memory will get a lot better once I’m Ellie Featherstone.” She leaned forward and began fiddling with the radio, searching for an oldies station. She also lowered the air-conditioning fan. “That’s the thing about getting older. Unimportant things slip your mind so easily.” Suddenly she ramped up the volume and shouted, “Russell, listen! It’s Glen Miller’s band playin’ ‘String of Pearls.’ Did I ever tell you I love to dance? You do like dancin’, don’t you?”
Meanwhile, Ellie had emptied the glove compartment without finding any tissues. She began folding old oil change receipts, inspection check-up sheets, and flattening folded pages in the ownership manual. After studying the registration certificate, she started putting the papers back in the compartment.
“Oh, yes. The flat tire,” he said, picking up his train of thought. “Well, anyway, I changed the thing myself and it made me realize that, sixty-nine-years-old or not, age was just a state of mind.” He smiled at her, as if expecting a reply.
She blinked a few times then fixed her eyes on him. “What are you talkin’ about? How’d you get from ‘Let’s get married’ to a flat tire in 1988?”
“Could’ve been ’89.”
“I asked the simple question, ‘What’s your middle name?’” Ellie said, “and you go on about a flat tire—coulda been 1988, coulda been 1989, coulda been right front, coulda been right rear. Lord, Russell, and you just said I talk gibberish. Ain’t that just like a man? By the way, do you have allergies?” He shook his head no and she continued returning things to the glove compartment. A gold charm on a chain with a key attached caught her eye. It was on of those key rings sold in gas stations and gift shops, the kind with every name from A-to-Z hanging on a spinner. Ellie turned it over. ADA was painted in bright red letters. “Thought you said your wife’s name was Frances? Who’s Ada?” She dangled the key chain in front of his face.
“Ada? Where the heck did that thing come from?” He reached for it but Ellie pulled it back. “I just want to see it. Maybe it’ll refresh my memory.”
“Russell Featherstone, you’d better come clean. I’ve got no intention of marrying a man who’s a two-timer. My sister Callie married one of those and lived to regret it. Had four children by that man, kept a clean house, and cooked every night. No matter. He still couldn’t keep his pants zipped.”
Upon hearing the word “zipped,” Russell asked, “Honey pie, did you unzip that outside pocket when you were looking for your hanky?” He motioned with a finger to a zipper on the front of her handbag.
Ellie’s eyes flicked to his face, then down at her bag. “Don’t believe I did.” She pulled the silver tab and withdrew a pale blue handkerchief. “You’re so smart, Russell,” she said, leaning toward him and pecking his cheek.
A broad grin covered the old gentleman’s face, as if he was finally on firm ground and could return their discussion to the core issue: marriage.
“That’s what surprises me,” Ellie went on. “Smart man like you takes a lady out for a drive in his big-fancy-Texas-oilman car with all intentions of proposing and leaves evidence of another woman in plain sight.” She slowly reached for the fan dial and turned it down.
“Wasn’t in plain sight. You found it when you were poking around in the glove compartment. Remember?”
Ellie fingered the key chain, turning it over and over. “What kind of car did she have? Or maybe I should say does she have?” Now she was swinging the key back and forth. Outside tumbleweed dancing across the terrain caught her eye. I love dancing. Wonder if Russell likes to dance?
“Ellie Pickett, you are one frustrating woman. How the hell do I know who Ada was? Could have been a friend of one of the grandchildren. Could have been one of those nurses I carted back and forth to care for Frances. Heaven help me if you ever find a phone number scratched on a piece of paper and I can’t remember whose it is! Guess once you say you’ll marry me, I’ll have to examine every nook and cranny of my house or you’ll change your mind.
So . . . I guess he’s planning on moving me into the same house he lived in with Frances. Now that would be just too strange. What if the furniture’s in poor taste? Lord, Leland hung on to that ratty old sofa of his mamma’s like it was spun from gold.
The couple was so engrossed in conversation they never noticed the car that had pulled up behind them. A knock on Russell’s window caused both of them to jump in their seats and their mouths to drop open.
“Sorry if I scared you, sir,” yelled a fortyish man with hair tied in a ponytail and a tee shirt that read “Viva Zapata.” “I just wondered if you might need help. You know, maybe needed a cell phone or something?”
“No, no,” Russell said. “We’re fine. Thank you for stopping.” He had cracked the window and now abruptly closed it and turned the air-conditioning up a notch. He made the mistake of asking Ellie, “Where were we?”
“I was gonna say that that’s how Callie caught Edgar.”
“Stranded on the side of the road without a cell phone?”
“No, no, silly. A phone number on a slip of paper. See, she was cleanin’ out his pockets, gettin’ his pants ready for the dry cleaners, and she came upon a slip of paper with a phone number and a woman’s name written on it.” She looked down at the key ring. “Name could have been Ada for all I remember. Wouldn’t that be a coincidence?” She closed her fist around the key. Poor Callie, she told herself. She never did get over that. Threw him out and then had to work at that cotton mill ten hours a day. Ellie opened her fist. “If you really don’t know Ada, then I expect you wouldn’t mind if I opened the window and tossed this away, would you?” Her finger tapped on the window control button.
A look of relief crossed Russell’s face. “Be my guest. Throw it out. Bury it, if it’ll make you happy. Then let’s get back to discussing something important, like marriage.”
Ellie studied him: he was still a good-looking man, one of those men instantly recognized as a quality person. His gray hair was combed back, sort of longish, and his full mustache was neatly trimmed. She’d been taken with him since that first Sunday after she’d arrived from South Carolina.
It was right before church when Barbara had voiced her surprise plan: brunch with her
father at his country club. When they entered the clubhouse foyer, there he sat; quite dashing in a green sport coat and khaki pants, his boots highly polished. For some reason Ellie’s stomach had fluttered, but at the time she attributed it to gas. Now she noticed the twinkle in his chestnut brown eyes. So why this nagging fear of giving him the answer he wants?
It wasn’t because her daughter would be upset, or because she—Ellie—didn’t want to let go of her old life. Truth was she wanted nothing more than to leave that other life. It’s why she’d flown a thousand miles to Texas. Hoping to find something she’d missed.
She had loved Leland but she was only eighteen when they married. What did she know about life, about anything? She’d never traveled anywhere, other than a visit to the State House in Columbia. Besides, Leland was a homebody, a worker; travel held no excitement for him. So Ellie packed away her dreams like too-small clothes, saving them for another day. After Lisa’s invitation, Ellie aired out those little dreams and carried them to Texas. Now she wondered if her hesitation was nothing more than the fear of beginning a new life chapter. Her fingers worried across the letters A-D-A and she decided to throw her caution and the keychain to the Texas winds.
Ellie pushed the window button and flung the key chain as hard as she could. As the window slid noiselessly to a close, she said, “And don’t you be drivin’ out here to mile marker 142 searchin’ for that thing!”
Russell took her hand in his, brushed her fingertips with his mustache, then kissed them. “Does that mean your answer is yes?” He waited.
“Let’s just say I’ll give you my answer after you’ve told me what those longhorns are about and answered my other question.”
“Which one?”
“You know. I asked if you were a sex maniac.”
“Well, the first one’s easy; I put them there because I could. When I was a youngster every rich Texas oilman had longhorns on his car hood. I decided if I ever hit it big that’s what I’d do. And I have, so I did. Whenever I look at them they tell me, ‘Ease up, Russell. Grab life by the horns and live a little.’ Which is why I'm working so hard at roping you in.” And he pinched her cheek.
“I’m still waitin’ for the answer to my other question.”
“Now that one’s going to be more difficult. You’ll have to marry me and find out for yourself!”
Ellie giggled, reached over, and ran her fingers through his hair. “You’re a handsome devil, know it?” She kissed him and then wiggled herself down into the seat.
Russell hit the directional signal and pulled onto the highway. Twenty minutes later he looked over at her and chuckled. “What number did you say that mile marker was?”
Sweetness painted Ellie’s face and she answered in a sing-songy voice, “Maybe it was 124, or it coulda been 241. Nope, I think it was 142. But I’m not certain. Anyway, I imagine my memory will get a lot better once I’m Ellie Featherstone.” She leaned forward and began fiddling with the radio, searching for an oldies station. She also lowered the air-conditioning fan. “That’s the thing about getting older. Unimportant things slip your mind so easily.” Suddenly she ramped up the volume and shouted, “Russell, listen! It’s Glen Miller’s band playin’ ‘String of Pearls.’ Did I ever tell you I love to dance? You do like dancin’, don’t you?”
Thursday, January 24, 2008
String of Pearls, part 1, by Nancy Purcell
Nancy Purcell, writer and teacher lives in Brevard, NC. The following short story was published in thesquaretable.com about a year ago. The story has been divided into two parts due to length.
STRING OF PEARLS
Outside Austin, Russell Featherstone drove his Cadillac onto the shoulder of Highway 290, threw the gear into park, and turned to the woman beside him. “What do you say we get married?”
Ellie Pickett’s head jerked toward him so fast she heard her vertebrae crack. At first, when he’d pulled off the highway so abruptly, she thought something was wrong with the engine, but now she believed it was her hearing. “Married? Land sakes, Russell, we just met two weeks ago! Married?” She blinked a few times then fixed her eyes on him. “You’re not one of those crazies, are you?” She shook her head. “You know what I’m sayin’? One of those men that meets a gal, favors the swing of her skirt, and decides to marry her?” Her brow wrinkled and she lowered her chin. “Tell me you’re not some sex maniac. There’ve been plenty of warnin’s on television about men like that.”
Ellie’s husband, Leland Pickett of Seneca, South Carolina, had passed on to Glory some three years ago. Whenever someone inquired about his death, she’d snap her fingers and answer, “Died in his sleep, just like that.” They had one daughter, Lisa, who’d moved to Texas—Austin— with her husband twenty years before.
Ellie and Leland had never visited Lisa during those years; there was always an excuse: too far, too costly, too whatever. In reality, Leland just preferred staying home. So when Lisa invited her mother to Austin for a month, she grabbed the opportunity. Since her husband’s death Ellie had an itch to do something with her life. She’d grown tired of hearing folks gush about their cruises to everywhere. Tired of watching people on TV jump up and down because they’d won a trip to some island she didn’t know existed. And it was because of that itch that she now found herself parked on a Texas roadside with a man named Russell.
“Good Lord, Ellie. All I said was “Why don’t we get married?” Russell let loose of the steering wheel and slumped in the seat. He gently placed his hand on her forearm as if to reassure her she was safe. “I like you, Ellie,” he said in a voice as sweet as a songbird’s. “Hell, I’m crazy over you! Sure we just met, but I’ve closed deals for millions with less time invested.” He blew out a lung full of air, turned up the air-conditioning fan, and waited for her reaction.
“That may be so,” she shot back, waggling a finger at him, “but I’m not some oil field you’re biddin’ on. Not this gal!” She turned down the visor, leaned forward, and studied herself in the lighted mirror. Ellie knew that, despite her age, she was still attractive; the mirror renewed her opinion. She ran her tongue across her teeth and rubbed her lips together, smoothing out pink lipstick. A quick wipe of a finger beneath each eye cleared away smudged eyeliner. As she primped her full white hair and batted the lashes of her blue eyes she could hear her daddy teasing about boys chasing after her. ‘You’ll soon have as many beaus as pearls on a string,’ he’d say, then slap his knee and let loose a belly laugh. Ellie pushed the visor back up, wiggled her fanny into the leather seat and opened her handbag. “Hmm . . . thought I’d put a handkerchief in here before we left Lisa’s.” While she was rummaging, Russell stared at her in amazement. Out of the corner of her eye Ellie caught him watching her and wondered if he still thought of her as a “pint-sized bit of dynamite.”
It was Lisa who’d introduced them to each other. That is, Lisa and her best friend Barbara, who also happened to be Russell’s daughter. The two fifty-year-old empty nesters dedicated way too much time to makeover television shows and romance novels. Having lost control of their children’s lives, and finding themselves unable to exercise little, if any, control over their husbands, they cooked up a plan to enrich the lives of their elderly, single parents: Russell, age eighty-six, and Ellie, eighty-four.
“Well?” Russell queried. Ellie was engaged in zipping and unzipping the eight compartments of her handbag, searching for a hanky. “Ellie! Have you gone deaf?”
“Shush, Russell. Can’t you see I’m thinkin’?” She zipped a small side pocket closed and screwed up her face. “Has it occurred to you that I don’t even know your middle name?” She folded her hands atop the purse and turned her attention to the flowers growing along the roadside. Lovely bluebonnets, she thought. They’d sure look pretty on the kitchen table. I always wanted to do that—keep a white pitcher full of daisies on the table. It’d be like waking up to sunshine. Leland had been allergic to pollen, so fresh flowers in the house were always out of the question. “That’s why the durn things grow outside,” he’d told her. The man even went so far as to chop down the stately pines in the front yard. Their crime: dropping yellow-green pollen come spring. Ellie wondered if Russell had allergies.
“Elvin,” he said. “My middle name is Elvin. Now will you marry me?”
Ellie turned in her seat, reached forward, and lowered the fan speed. “What kind of name is Elvin? Sounds like a family name. Don’t reckon I’ve ever heard it before and, believe me, in South Carolina we’ve got a slew of weird names. Did I ever tell you my husband Leland’s younger brother’s name was Bowser? Family just called him Bow-wow. Now ain’t that an awful thing? Saddling a child with a name like Bowser? I told Lisa if she ever—”
“Ellie, for God’s sake, what are you talkin’ about? Who the hell cares if some kid grew up with the name Bow-wow?”
“Bowser.”
“Bowser, schmowser. Who cares? Certainly not me, and certainly not today!” Russell reached over and picked up a can of lemonade from the console, took a sip, and set it down. “Mighty tasty for being canned,” he mumbled. He smacked his lips and ran a finger along his mustache then pushed the fan dial up one speed. “I’m talking marriage here and you’re talking gibberish.” Just then an eighteen-wheeler passed by with such speed that the Cadillac rocked.
“Mercy,” Ellie shouted, her hand flying to her chest. “We’ll be killed parked out here in the middle of nowhere, Russell. I don’t think this is a good idea.” She glanced at the key in the ignition as if to will it to turn. Nothing happened. Noticing the Cadillac emblem she recalled how Leland had favored Chevrolets. He always was tight with the dollar. He’d never have bought anything as fine or pricey as this Cadillac. She slid her hand along the soft leather; smooth as a newborn. Wouldn’t take much for a gal to get used to this kind of luxury.
Ellie picked up the conversation. “So I’m talking gibberish, am I? Is this a preview of how I can expect to be treated? Brought up short every time I share a memory?” She peered at him and pursed her lips, then returned her focus to the highway. “There’s enough traffic out there to make a body think it’s a holiday. I suppose if I were to ask why you have those longhorns stuck up there on your hood, well, that’d be gibberish, too.” Without waiting for him to catch up or answer, she leaned forward and opened the glove compartment. “Any chance I'll find a pack of tissues in here? I think I’m gonna need them.” She began removing papers, folders and gadgets, and piling them on her lap. Leland’s old Chevy had a glove compartment about the size of a sandwich, she told herself. Russell’s packed enough junk in her to fill a file cabinet.
While she was busy with her latest project, Russell heaved a sigh and offered a thought. “You know, the last time I pulled over on the side of a highway was back in 1988—or was it ’89? Blew out a tire—right front, I think—could have been right rear, now that I call it to mind. Damn near scared me to death.” Just then two trucks flew past, honking their horns in unison. “Well, talk about being scared to death. You all right, Ellie?” No answer. “Hmm. Where was I?” He gripped the steering wheel as if he could squeeze an answer from it.
STRING OF PEARLS
Outside Austin, Russell Featherstone drove his Cadillac onto the shoulder of Highway 290, threw the gear into park, and turned to the woman beside him. “What do you say we get married?”
Ellie Pickett’s head jerked toward him so fast she heard her vertebrae crack. At first, when he’d pulled off the highway so abruptly, she thought something was wrong with the engine, but now she believed it was her hearing. “Married? Land sakes, Russell, we just met two weeks ago! Married?” She blinked a few times then fixed her eyes on him. “You’re not one of those crazies, are you?” She shook her head. “You know what I’m sayin’? One of those men that meets a gal, favors the swing of her skirt, and decides to marry her?” Her brow wrinkled and she lowered her chin. “Tell me you’re not some sex maniac. There’ve been plenty of warnin’s on television about men like that.”
Ellie’s husband, Leland Pickett of Seneca, South Carolina, had passed on to Glory some three years ago. Whenever someone inquired about his death, she’d snap her fingers and answer, “Died in his sleep, just like that.” They had one daughter, Lisa, who’d moved to Texas—Austin— with her husband twenty years before.
Ellie and Leland had never visited Lisa during those years; there was always an excuse: too far, too costly, too whatever. In reality, Leland just preferred staying home. So when Lisa invited her mother to Austin for a month, she grabbed the opportunity. Since her husband’s death Ellie had an itch to do something with her life. She’d grown tired of hearing folks gush about their cruises to everywhere. Tired of watching people on TV jump up and down because they’d won a trip to some island she didn’t know existed. And it was because of that itch that she now found herself parked on a Texas roadside with a man named Russell.
“Good Lord, Ellie. All I said was “Why don’t we get married?” Russell let loose of the steering wheel and slumped in the seat. He gently placed his hand on her forearm as if to reassure her she was safe. “I like you, Ellie,” he said in a voice as sweet as a songbird’s. “Hell, I’m crazy over you! Sure we just met, but I’ve closed deals for millions with less time invested.” He blew out a lung full of air, turned up the air-conditioning fan, and waited for her reaction.
“That may be so,” she shot back, waggling a finger at him, “but I’m not some oil field you’re biddin’ on. Not this gal!” She turned down the visor, leaned forward, and studied herself in the lighted mirror. Ellie knew that, despite her age, she was still attractive; the mirror renewed her opinion. She ran her tongue across her teeth and rubbed her lips together, smoothing out pink lipstick. A quick wipe of a finger beneath each eye cleared away smudged eyeliner. As she primped her full white hair and batted the lashes of her blue eyes she could hear her daddy teasing about boys chasing after her. ‘You’ll soon have as many beaus as pearls on a string,’ he’d say, then slap his knee and let loose a belly laugh. Ellie pushed the visor back up, wiggled her fanny into the leather seat and opened her handbag. “Hmm . . . thought I’d put a handkerchief in here before we left Lisa’s.” While she was rummaging, Russell stared at her in amazement. Out of the corner of her eye Ellie caught him watching her and wondered if he still thought of her as a “pint-sized bit of dynamite.”
It was Lisa who’d introduced them to each other. That is, Lisa and her best friend Barbara, who also happened to be Russell’s daughter. The two fifty-year-old empty nesters dedicated way too much time to makeover television shows and romance novels. Having lost control of their children’s lives, and finding themselves unable to exercise little, if any, control over their husbands, they cooked up a plan to enrich the lives of their elderly, single parents: Russell, age eighty-six, and Ellie, eighty-four.
“Well?” Russell queried. Ellie was engaged in zipping and unzipping the eight compartments of her handbag, searching for a hanky. “Ellie! Have you gone deaf?”
“Shush, Russell. Can’t you see I’m thinkin’?” She zipped a small side pocket closed and screwed up her face. “Has it occurred to you that I don’t even know your middle name?” She folded her hands atop the purse and turned her attention to the flowers growing along the roadside. Lovely bluebonnets, she thought. They’d sure look pretty on the kitchen table. I always wanted to do that—keep a white pitcher full of daisies on the table. It’d be like waking up to sunshine. Leland had been allergic to pollen, so fresh flowers in the house were always out of the question. “That’s why the durn things grow outside,” he’d told her. The man even went so far as to chop down the stately pines in the front yard. Their crime: dropping yellow-green pollen come spring. Ellie wondered if Russell had allergies.
“Elvin,” he said. “My middle name is Elvin. Now will you marry me?”
Ellie turned in her seat, reached forward, and lowered the fan speed. “What kind of name is Elvin? Sounds like a family name. Don’t reckon I’ve ever heard it before and, believe me, in South Carolina we’ve got a slew of weird names. Did I ever tell you my husband Leland’s younger brother’s name was Bowser? Family just called him Bow-wow. Now ain’t that an awful thing? Saddling a child with a name like Bowser? I told Lisa if she ever—”
“Ellie, for God’s sake, what are you talkin’ about? Who the hell cares if some kid grew up with the name Bow-wow?”
“Bowser.”
“Bowser, schmowser. Who cares? Certainly not me, and certainly not today!” Russell reached over and picked up a can of lemonade from the console, took a sip, and set it down. “Mighty tasty for being canned,” he mumbled. He smacked his lips and ran a finger along his mustache then pushed the fan dial up one speed. “I’m talking marriage here and you’re talking gibberish.” Just then an eighteen-wheeler passed by with such speed that the Cadillac rocked.
“Mercy,” Ellie shouted, her hand flying to her chest. “We’ll be killed parked out here in the middle of nowhere, Russell. I don’t think this is a good idea.” She glanced at the key in the ignition as if to will it to turn. Nothing happened. Noticing the Cadillac emblem she recalled how Leland had favored Chevrolets. He always was tight with the dollar. He’d never have bought anything as fine or pricey as this Cadillac. She slid her hand along the soft leather; smooth as a newborn. Wouldn’t take much for a gal to get used to this kind of luxury.
Ellie picked up the conversation. “So I’m talking gibberish, am I? Is this a preview of how I can expect to be treated? Brought up short every time I share a memory?” She peered at him and pursed her lips, then returned her focus to the highway. “There’s enough traffic out there to make a body think it’s a holiday. I suppose if I were to ask why you have those longhorns stuck up there on your hood, well, that’d be gibberish, too.” Without waiting for him to catch up or answer, she leaned forward and opened the glove compartment. “Any chance I'll find a pack of tissues in here? I think I’m gonna need them.” She began removing papers, folders and gadgets, and piling them on her lap. Leland’s old Chevy had a glove compartment about the size of a sandwich, she told herself. Russell’s packed enough junk in her to fill a file cabinet.
While she was busy with her latest project, Russell heaved a sigh and offered a thought. “You know, the last time I pulled over on the side of a highway was back in 1988—or was it ’89? Blew out a tire—right front, I think—could have been right rear, now that I call it to mind. Damn near scared me to death.” Just then two trucks flew past, honking their horns in unison. “Well, talk about being scared to death. You all right, Ellie?” No answer. “Hmm. Where was I?” He gripped the steering wheel as if he could squeeze an answer from it.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Good Advice From Maureen Ryan Griffin
I asked Maureen Ryan Griffin to guest post today, and she sent me the following:
What Questions Do You Ask?
As a writer, the questions that you ask matter. Why? For one thing, they are important clues to the context you have for your writing. This context affects, not just the way you feel, but also what you choose to write about, how hard you're willing to work, and how tenaciously you seek publication.
I've had well over a thousand students in my writing classes and workshops, and there's one question I get asked over and over. Want to guess what it is?
The question is some variant of Do I have talent? Sometimes it comes out Is my writing any good? or Do you think I can get published? Regardless, what students are really asking for is a measurement of their innate ability. This is dangerous. And not particularly useful.
Of course, we all want to know, beyond all doubt, that we are brilliant. Of course, some people have more raw talent than others. But think about it-the correlation between talent and success is not particularly high. There are extremely talented writers who never publish a word, for reasons that range from practical to heartbreaking. Conversely, there are moderately talented writers who publish profusely. You've read their books, poems, and/or articles. You've said, "How could this get published? My stuff is so much better!"
I'll tell you how. The writer did what it took to write it and get it out there. Sure, he or she may have had connections, but forging those connections took effort, too. The focus was not on Am I talented? but something more akin to What will it take to get this published? or What's the next step?
Asking Am I talented? keeps the focus on you. And you will be much better served if your focus is on the writing, or on the reader. Remember J.K. Rowling's Dumbledore telling Harry that our choices say more about us than our abilities do? Talent is far less important than commitment.
One of my early successes was the publishing of an article, "Faith Lessons from a Dying Woman," in a Catholic magazine called Saint Anthony Messenger. It was about Lynn Tucker, a woman in my church who died of cancer, leaving behind a family, including a son who, at eight, was only a year older than my daughter. One evening several months after her death, our parish priest, the Father Burke I spoke of earlier, gave my daughter an angel filled with candy that Lynn had made and given him. The circumstances of that evening, coupled with my memories of Lynn's loving generosity, so inspired me that I was determined to share the story.
I'd never written an article like this before. My husband told me later that when he read my first draft, his heart sank because it was so bad. I don't remember how long it took me to prepare that piece for submission. I do remember that I turned to my mentor, Irene Honeycutt, for constructive feedback. And I'll never forget the day I revised and polished it for over four hours, only to have my dedicated word processor (a precursor to the desktop computer) lose every word. Of course I was discouraged. But I didn't let even that stop me. I rewrote the whole thing.
My husband was surprised when Saint Anthony Messenger took my story, but I wasn't. "Faith Lessons from a Dying Woman" made it to publication because the question I was asking was What will it take to get this story in print to show Lynn's family my gratitude? and I was willing to do whatever it took. My context was love and honor, not talent.
Instead of focusing on your talent, or lack thereof, ask questions such as How can I become a better writer? and What's possible for me if I throw my whole heart into my writing? What juicy, fascinating person, place, or thing can I write about? What can I write that will touch, or entertain, or inspire someone else? Your chances for happiness-and success-will multiply.
What questions will you ask? Keeping in mind that the questions you ask are the foundation of your whole relationship with writing, which will you ask? Choose a question or questions from the paragraph above, or create a question or questions of your own.
From Spinning Words into Gold by Maureen Ryan Griffin
To order a copy, see www.maureenryangriffin.com.
What Questions Do You Ask?
As a writer, the questions that you ask matter. Why? For one thing, they are important clues to the context you have for your writing. This context affects, not just the way you feel, but also what you choose to write about, how hard you're willing to work, and how tenaciously you seek publication.
I've had well over a thousand students in my writing classes and workshops, and there's one question I get asked over and over. Want to guess what it is?
The question is some variant of Do I have talent? Sometimes it comes out Is my writing any good? or Do you think I can get published? Regardless, what students are really asking for is a measurement of their innate ability. This is dangerous. And not particularly useful.
Of course, we all want to know, beyond all doubt, that we are brilliant. Of course, some people have more raw talent than others. But think about it-the correlation between talent and success is not particularly high. There are extremely talented writers who never publish a word, for reasons that range from practical to heartbreaking. Conversely, there are moderately talented writers who publish profusely. You've read their books, poems, and/or articles. You've said, "How could this get published? My stuff is so much better!"
I'll tell you how. The writer did what it took to write it and get it out there. Sure, he or she may have had connections, but forging those connections took effort, too. The focus was not on Am I talented? but something more akin to What will it take to get this published? or What's the next step?
Asking Am I talented? keeps the focus on you. And you will be much better served if your focus is on the writing, or on the reader. Remember J.K. Rowling's Dumbledore telling Harry that our choices say more about us than our abilities do? Talent is far less important than commitment.
One of my early successes was the publishing of an article, "Faith Lessons from a Dying Woman," in a Catholic magazine called Saint Anthony Messenger. It was about Lynn Tucker, a woman in my church who died of cancer, leaving behind a family, including a son who, at eight, was only a year older than my daughter. One evening several months after her death, our parish priest, the Father Burke I spoke of earlier, gave my daughter an angel filled with candy that Lynn had made and given him. The circumstances of that evening, coupled with my memories of Lynn's loving generosity, so inspired me that I was determined to share the story.
I'd never written an article like this before. My husband told me later that when he read my first draft, his heart sank because it was so bad. I don't remember how long it took me to prepare that piece for submission. I do remember that I turned to my mentor, Irene Honeycutt, for constructive feedback. And I'll never forget the day I revised and polished it for over four hours, only to have my dedicated word processor (a precursor to the desktop computer) lose every word. Of course I was discouraged. But I didn't let even that stop me. I rewrote the whole thing.
My husband was surprised when Saint Anthony Messenger took my story, but I wasn't. "Faith Lessons from a Dying Woman" made it to publication because the question I was asking was What will it take to get this story in print to show Lynn's family my gratitude? and I was willing to do whatever it took. My context was love and honor, not talent.
Instead of focusing on your talent, or lack thereof, ask questions such as How can I become a better writer? and What's possible for me if I throw my whole heart into my writing? What juicy, fascinating person, place, or thing can I write about? What can I write that will touch, or entertain, or inspire someone else? Your chances for happiness-and success-will multiply.
What questions will you ask? Keeping in mind that the questions you ask are the foundation of your whole relationship with writing, which will you ask? Choose a question or questions from the paragraph above, or create a question or questions of your own.
From Spinning Words into Gold by Maureen Ryan Griffin
To order a copy, see www.maureenryangriffin.com.
Friday, January 18, 2008
Simply Say Thank You
The following is a quote from Jack Canfield, author and CEO of Chicken Soup for the Soul Enterprises.
Practice appreciation. Studies of employee motivation inevitably find that feeling appreciated is the single greatest motivator in the workplace, even ahead of higher wages. Yet many people fail to put the power of appreciation to full use in their business and personal lives.
When you show people that you appreciate them, you not only make them feel better, you make yourself more successful. People are more likely to help you achieve your goals if they believe that you appreciate their efforts. There's no downside -- appreciation costs nothing, and no one has ever complained about being over-appreciated.
This quote was sent to me by a dear friend and relative. I believe showing appreciation is THE most important act we perform - not just for the person we thank, but for ourselves.
I especially find that thanking a clerk for her service or her help, even though she may just be doing her job, changes that person's attitude immediately. Recently a young woman in a copy store had a day's work stacked up. Although I was only in town for an hour, she said she could not help me until the next day. A man who was also waiting for help began telling me, where
the clerk could hear him, that this young woman had always helped him when he needed her, and she was the most diligent and concerned person who worked there. I'm not in a hurry, he said. I will wait for her because she knows her business better than anyone.
I immediately saw the difference in this overworked employee.
Her expression softened. She opened a conversation with me and asked questions about what I wanted. I told her my dilemma, and how much I would appreciate her help. I told the gentleman beside me that I always made a policy to tell companies when their clerks were helpful. I said I felt everyone should hear the good things as well as the bad. And I truly do. I've written letters to presidents of corporations in appreciation of a local employee.
It takes so little to say thanks. And it goes so far. The kindly clerk helped me with my copies and I was out of there within an hour.
I grew up in a family with a father who believed that giving compliments or open appreciation was either a sign of weakness or would be harmful to his children. He didn't want to make his kids think they were more important than they really were. There was no chance of that. We grew up insecure and thinking we were never good enough.
I don't know what made him this way. Perhaps it was just his generation and the way they were raised. I've heard others speak of parents who were the same way.
For years I didn't know how to show my appreciation. Embarrassment filled my mouth and words scrambled around in my head when I tried to give compliments or show my gratitude. But somewhere along the way, I realized how my spirit was lifted when I was told that my efforts had been recognized.
The employer who changed my attitude the most was T.W., a woman I worked for, part time, for five years. She not only told me how much she appreciated me, she told others in my presence. I was a grown woman, but I felt as happy as a kid chosen for the school play.
I had been told that if an employer showed too much appreciation for his workers, they would take advantage of him, become lax in their jobs. That didn't make sense to me.
I know I craved appreciation and acknowledgement of my work efforts. It was, indeed, more valuable to me than money. As T.W. made me feel good about myself, I worked longer hours than was required, I took work home to be sure it was the best it could be. Most of all, I learned from this smart woman that if I should happen to make an error, it was not the end of the world. She still appreciated me.
Once I learned how easy it is to say thank you and express my appreciation to others, and I saw how much difference it can make in a relationship, I try to make sure my gratefullness is evident to those I work with and to others.
Barry and I with other relatives helped my sister and brother-in-law leave the family home and move to a retirement center in Atlanta. I wrote a letter to my sister, my nieces and to the couple who had to move, to tell everyone how well they did with the jobs they took on in this re-settlement. And I told my sister and her husband how grateful I was for their cooperation, their patience, and lack of complaint in this trying business of giving up their belongings, their keepsakes, learning a new life style and making new friends. Both June and Charlie have been outstanding in the way they accepted the little glitches that occurred, our mistakes and ommissions. I thought they deserved a great deal of appreciation for making our lives a little less stressful. Maybe my note of thanks has helped them to be more patient as well.
I am thankful for all our Netwest members and the cooperation they have given me since I took office as Program Coordinator June 1, 2007. Because they show their support and appreciation to me, I work as hard as I can to do a good job for all our writers.
Practice appreciation. Studies of employee motivation inevitably find that feeling appreciated is the single greatest motivator in the workplace, even ahead of higher wages. Yet many people fail to put the power of appreciation to full use in their business and personal lives.
When you show people that you appreciate them, you not only make them feel better, you make yourself more successful. People are more likely to help you achieve your goals if they believe that you appreciate their efforts. There's no downside -- appreciation costs nothing, and no one has ever complained about being over-appreciated.
This quote was sent to me by a dear friend and relative. I believe showing appreciation is THE most important act we perform - not just for the person we thank, but for ourselves.
I especially find that thanking a clerk for her service or her help, even though she may just be doing her job, changes that person's attitude immediately. Recently a young woman in a copy store had a day's work stacked up. Although I was only in town for an hour, she said she could not help me until the next day. A man who was also waiting for help began telling me, where
the clerk could hear him, that this young woman had always helped him when he needed her, and she was the most diligent and concerned person who worked there. I'm not in a hurry, he said. I will wait for her because she knows her business better than anyone.
I immediately saw the difference in this overworked employee.
Her expression softened. She opened a conversation with me and asked questions about what I wanted. I told her my dilemma, and how much I would appreciate her help. I told the gentleman beside me that I always made a policy to tell companies when their clerks were helpful. I said I felt everyone should hear the good things as well as the bad. And I truly do. I've written letters to presidents of corporations in appreciation of a local employee.
It takes so little to say thanks. And it goes so far. The kindly clerk helped me with my copies and I was out of there within an hour.
I grew up in a family with a father who believed that giving compliments or open appreciation was either a sign of weakness or would be harmful to his children. He didn't want to make his kids think they were more important than they really were. There was no chance of that. We grew up insecure and thinking we were never good enough.
I don't know what made him this way. Perhaps it was just his generation and the way they were raised. I've heard others speak of parents who were the same way.
For years I didn't know how to show my appreciation. Embarrassment filled my mouth and words scrambled around in my head when I tried to give compliments or show my gratitude. But somewhere along the way, I realized how my spirit was lifted when I was told that my efforts had been recognized.
The employer who changed my attitude the most was T.W., a woman I worked for, part time, for five years. She not only told me how much she appreciated me, she told others in my presence. I was a grown woman, but I felt as happy as a kid chosen for the school play.
I had been told that if an employer showed too much appreciation for his workers, they would take advantage of him, become lax in their jobs. That didn't make sense to me.
I know I craved appreciation and acknowledgement of my work efforts. It was, indeed, more valuable to me than money. As T.W. made me feel good about myself, I worked longer hours than was required, I took work home to be sure it was the best it could be. Most of all, I learned from this smart woman that if I should happen to make an error, it was not the end of the world. She still appreciated me.
Once I learned how easy it is to say thank you and express my appreciation to others, and I saw how much difference it can make in a relationship, I try to make sure my gratefullness is evident to those I work with and to others.
Barry and I with other relatives helped my sister and brother-in-law leave the family home and move to a retirement center in Atlanta. I wrote a letter to my sister, my nieces and to the couple who had to move, to tell everyone how well they did with the jobs they took on in this re-settlement. And I told my sister and her husband how grateful I was for their cooperation, their patience, and lack of complaint in this trying business of giving up their belongings, their keepsakes, learning a new life style and making new friends. Both June and Charlie have been outstanding in the way they accepted the little glitches that occurred, our mistakes and ommissions. I thought they deserved a great deal of appreciation for making our lives a little less stressful. Maybe my note of thanks has helped them to be more patient as well.
I am thankful for all our Netwest members and the cooperation they have given me since I took office as Program Coordinator June 1, 2007. Because they show their support and appreciation to me, I work as hard as I can to do a good job for all our writers.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Quiet winter days, perfect for writing
Many of my friends find the days of winter perfect for writing. The best writing days are snow days when no one wants or needs to go outside. In fact we are told to stay home. Stay off the roads, we hear from the media. I like this time of year for many reasons, but having the chance to hole up, stay in pajamas all day, and read or write with no interruptions, that is the best! Who is going to drop in on a cold wintry day? No one.
I also find that some of us use the winter days to clean out the clutter. Clean out closets, clean out the garage, throw away, give away, and recycle all those literary magazines, books we've read. If I bring home one more book, I'll have to give one away to find room for it.
Do you ever buy books that you hope to read one day, but that day just hasn't come yet? I have read very little fiction in the past several years, but I buy novels that I know I will love when I get back to reading fiction.I've run out of room for these books, but if I packed them in a box, I'd forget I have them, and then I'd probably buy another copy when I see one in the store. I thought I was a nut for books, but recently when my sister left her home of 30 years, we packed boxes and boxes of books, and she wanted to keep them all. She had no place for all those books in her two bedroom villa at her independent living facility. Of all her possessions,the books were the ones she most hated to give up. She would hold a dusty hard cover by one of her favorite authors, open it and say,"I think I'll keep this one. I'd like to read it again."
Why do we love books so much? I have been a reader since I was a small child and most of my writing friends also fell in love with reading when they were children. Not only did the books take me to far away places, the characters became my good friends. Jo March in Little Women was my best friend. What a character!I believe it was Jo who planted the writing seed in me. Like my sister,June, I think I'll read that one again.
I also find that some of us use the winter days to clean out the clutter. Clean out closets, clean out the garage, throw away, give away, and recycle all those literary magazines, books we've read. If I bring home one more book, I'll have to give one away to find room for it.
Do you ever buy books that you hope to read one day, but that day just hasn't come yet? I have read very little fiction in the past several years, but I buy novels that I know I will love when I get back to reading fiction.I've run out of room for these books, but if I packed them in a box, I'd forget I have them, and then I'd probably buy another copy when I see one in the store. I thought I was a nut for books, but recently when my sister left her home of 30 years, we packed boxes and boxes of books, and she wanted to keep them all. She had no place for all those books in her two bedroom villa at her independent living facility. Of all her possessions,the books were the ones she most hated to give up. She would hold a dusty hard cover by one of her favorite authors, open it and say,"I think I'll keep this one. I'd like to read it again."
Why do we love books so much? I have been a reader since I was a small child and most of my writing friends also fell in love with reading when they were children. Not only did the books take me to far away places, the characters became my good friends. Jo March in Little Women was my best friend. What a character!I believe it was Jo who planted the writing seed in me. Like my sister,June, I think I'll read that one again.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
What Can You Barter?
Have you ever bartered your expertise for something you want in return? I wrote a newspaper article for a massage therapist in return for a massage. I tutored a beginning writer online and in return he subscribed to a literary magazine in my name.
I am a big fan of barter. I find it hard to put a monetary value on some things, but the value of my experience, ability or knowledge can often be exchanged for something I would not necessarily buy for myself, but would still enjoy.
Recently a delightful woman offered me a week at her beach house in Florida in exchange for helping her with her writing while I'm there. She is a genealogy enthusiast and bought my book, Profiles and Pedigrees, Tom Council and His Descendents, (publisher: Genealogy Publishing Company)a couple of years ago.
Not only will this be a terrific exchange for me, but my husband Barry loves the idea. And he doesn't have to do anything but go with me and do the driving.
I have earned little money from writing, and I teach because I love to see the beginning students read a piece they'd written and realize their life story is totally unique and no one can write it the way they do. I've heard the most wonderful and unique stories from students whose lives had seemed ordinary until they learned how to dig down and explore the truth. I don't think there is enough money to pay me for that experience.
I like the barter system and I hope to do more and more of that in the coming year. Anyone have a cabin in Colorado they want to barter?
What might you have to offer someone in return for their expertise? I know many of our Netwest members have talents they could barter. Let me know if you have done that and how you liked the experience. You can comment on this blog or email me.
I am a big fan of barter. I find it hard to put a monetary value on some things, but the value of my experience, ability or knowledge can often be exchanged for something I would not necessarily buy for myself, but would still enjoy.
Recently a delightful woman offered me a week at her beach house in Florida in exchange for helping her with her writing while I'm there. She is a genealogy enthusiast and bought my book, Profiles and Pedigrees, Tom Council and His Descendents, (publisher: Genealogy Publishing Company)a couple of years ago.
Not only will this be a terrific exchange for me, but my husband Barry loves the idea. And he doesn't have to do anything but go with me and do the driving.
I have earned little money from writing, and I teach because I love to see the beginning students read a piece they'd written and realize their life story is totally unique and no one can write it the way they do. I've heard the most wonderful and unique stories from students whose lives had seemed ordinary until they learned how to dig down and explore the truth. I don't think there is enough money to pay me for that experience.
I like the barter system and I hope to do more and more of that in the coming year. Anyone have a cabin in Colorado they want to barter?
What might you have to offer someone in return for their expertise? I know many of our Netwest members have talents they could barter. Let me know if you have done that and how you liked the experience. You can comment on this blog or email me.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Netwest Prose Group
Thursday evening at 7:00 at Tri-County College in Murphy, NC the Netwest prose group met to read and share ideas on the stories and essays of each of those attending. This week Richard Argo, Jerry Hobbs, Natalie Grant, Shirley Uphouse,Peg Russell and I filled the chairs. Richard facilitates this group and is dead on with his remarks on how to help improve each piece. Shirley Uphouse is writing a book on her life with her dogs. Shirley is a professional dog show judge. This week she touched us all with her story about Jesse the young Australian Shepherd who seemed to be born a natural therapy dog for those confined in a nursing home.The saddest thing about this story to me was that I knew Jesse, the sweet and beautiful young dog who died quite suddenly last year.
Being an animal lover and having lost my own beloved pets, I felt the sadness of the author who never mentioned Jesse's death in this story, only her captivating way with the patients.
Natalie continues working on her novel. Last night's episode was well written and we could see in her descriptions some interesting characters. I want to know more about this story.
Jerry Hobbs took us to a bar where a "bad girl" seduced our hero in sensuous scenes without using any vulgar or shocking language.
Peg Russell, who is a darn good editor, kept us guessing with the beginning pages of her short story. Now we want to know what the clues are going to tell us. Rance Eliot died in prison. The elderly lady in the hospital became agitated when she saw the announcement of his death on TV. Why? We'll go back next month and see what comes next.
Richard continued with his science fiction novel where I learn more and more about space travel and terms I have never used in my own writing. Last night Richard threw in a bit of humor to lighten up the story.
My own hastily re-written personal essay on my mother's death turned out to be two stories, according to Richard, and I need to re-write it (hopefully)one more time.
Good writers in a good critique group have been the impetus behind many published authors including Jerry Hobbs who has three books on the market. We are fortunate in the Netwest Area to have members who take the critique group seriously and do their best to help each other in a kind but honest manner.
Being an animal lover and having lost my own beloved pets, I felt the sadness of the author who never mentioned Jesse's death in this story, only her captivating way with the patients.
Natalie continues working on her novel. Last night's episode was well written and we could see in her descriptions some interesting characters. I want to know more about this story.
Jerry Hobbs took us to a bar where a "bad girl" seduced our hero in sensuous scenes without using any vulgar or shocking language.
Peg Russell, who is a darn good editor, kept us guessing with the beginning pages of her short story. Now we want to know what the clues are going to tell us. Rance Eliot died in prison. The elderly lady in the hospital became agitated when she saw the announcement of his death on TV. Why? We'll go back next month and see what comes next.
Richard continued with his science fiction novel where I learn more and more about space travel and terms I have never used in my own writing. Last night Richard threw in a bit of humor to lighten up the story.
My own hastily re-written personal essay on my mother's death turned out to be two stories, according to Richard, and I need to re-write it (hopefully)one more time.
Good writers in a good critique group have been the impetus behind many published authors including Jerry Hobbs who has three books on the market. We are fortunate in the Netwest Area to have members who take the critique group seriously and do their best to help each other in a kind but honest manner.
Sunday, January 6, 2008
How the poet can sell his/her chapbook
Jennifer Bosveld, President, Pudding House Publications http://puddinghouse.com/
has the following on her site and I know we have a number of poets who have chapbooks. This advice is the best I've heard on selling your chapbook.
She makes it clear that your publisher is not going to spend a great deal of money marketing your book. The small presses make such a minute amount of money on chapbooks, I'm surprised they even bother.
WHAT YOU CAN DO TO GET YOUR CHAPBOOK SOLD
Attend readings
Participate in open mics, become known in your neighborhood/city as a poet
Work on reading/delivery technique and presentation style
Be a poet the audience wants to hear
Let venue directors know you have a chapbook out now and are available as a featured reader
At your readings, set up a good-looking display where people come into the room, not up front where you are. Most people won’t make it up there and therefore won’t see your book.
Offer “special event” discounts if possible.
Add a kicker line or blurb about your chap to your personal or professional stationery. (Thanks Warren Woessner)
Copy the cover and some of the back info i.e. ISBN and price and make your own flyer. Send out your own direct mail announcement with order form so they can order from you. Some authors want the publisher to handle all orders, they think it looks better. I understand the feeling. But don’t do both. If we both take orders even the best of friends can easily opt not to buy in hopes that you think they bought from us. Some people are loaded with friends who buy what they write; others do not know this luxury. Sometimes that eagerness to support a friend is a cultural thing, social custom.
Get local coverage in a newspaper if you have an angle, an interesting story that community members might be interested in. Do a press release and include a copy of the book when sending to the newspaper.
If your book appeals to special interests, send press releases and samples to those folks, i.e. Vivian Shipley’s Fishing Poems went to a couple of gift shops around popular fishing spots. Al Ferber’s Gus went to a Union 76 Station counter where they sold some.
REVIEWS
Send out review copies if you feel like it but don’t do it haphazardly. Realize which places do not review chapbooks—don’t waste your resources there. Also, ask yourself what you really want and what is reasonable to expect. If almost any chapbook would be fortunate (?) enough to get a review in the KnockmBopm Monthly, know whether it’s likely to get slammed. Be careful what you ask for, you might get it is the Mark Twain quote I usually consider a blessing, but very often, not when it comes to reviews. We no longer send out review copies because in over 20 years of doing so we never received a negative review (thank you, cosmos) but those positive reviews rarely if ever sold books. When Rita Dove published a raving review of a Pudding House release in the Washington Post I think we received one sale from the praise and over 200 congratulatory time-consuming emails.
READINGS AND PERFORMANCE—ARE NEARLY ALL THAT MATTER
Readings, more than anything else, sell chapbooks.
has the following on her site and I know we have a number of poets who have chapbooks. This advice is the best I've heard on selling your chapbook.
She makes it clear that your publisher is not going to spend a great deal of money marketing your book. The small presses make such a minute amount of money on chapbooks, I'm surprised they even bother.
WHAT YOU CAN DO TO GET YOUR CHAPBOOK SOLD
Attend readings
Participate in open mics, become known in your neighborhood/city as a poet
Work on reading/delivery technique and presentation style
Be a poet the audience wants to hear
Let venue directors know you have a chapbook out now and are available as a featured reader
At your readings, set up a good-looking display where people come into the room, not up front where you are. Most people won’t make it up there and therefore won’t see your book.
Offer “special event” discounts if possible.
Add a kicker line or blurb about your chap to your personal or professional stationery. (Thanks Warren Woessner)
Copy the cover and some of the back info i.e. ISBN and price and make your own flyer. Send out your own direct mail announcement with order form so they can order from you. Some authors want the publisher to handle all orders, they think it looks better. I understand the feeling. But don’t do both. If we both take orders even the best of friends can easily opt not to buy in hopes that you think they bought from us. Some people are loaded with friends who buy what they write; others do not know this luxury. Sometimes that eagerness to support a friend is a cultural thing, social custom.
Get local coverage in a newspaper if you have an angle, an interesting story that community members might be interested in. Do a press release and include a copy of the book when sending to the newspaper.
If your book appeals to special interests, send press releases and samples to those folks, i.e. Vivian Shipley’s Fishing Poems went to a couple of gift shops around popular fishing spots. Al Ferber’s Gus went to a Union 76 Station counter where they sold some.
REVIEWS
Send out review copies if you feel like it but don’t do it haphazardly. Realize which places do not review chapbooks—don’t waste your resources there. Also, ask yourself what you really want and what is reasonable to expect. If almost any chapbook would be fortunate (?) enough to get a review in the KnockmBopm Monthly, know whether it’s likely to get slammed. Be careful what you ask for, you might get it is the Mark Twain quote I usually consider a blessing, but very often, not when it comes to reviews. We no longer send out review copies because in over 20 years of doing so we never received a negative review (thank you, cosmos) but those positive reviews rarely if ever sold books. When Rita Dove published a raving review of a Pudding House release in the Washington Post I think we received one sale from the praise and over 200 congratulatory time-consuming emails.
READINGS AND PERFORMANCE—ARE NEARLY ALL THAT MATTER
Readings, more than anything else, sell chapbooks.
Saturday, January 5, 2008
Time to Write
Guess I'm not a real writer. Real, professional writers sit down in their computer chairs at a certain time every day and write because that is what writers do. Even when they don't feel like writing, they sit down and write. But even the "real" writers often find they can think of a million other things they should or want to do in the hour they planned to write. I check email first and that is a killer of my small time allotment. By the time I answer my email, my hour is about gone, and then I feel like I don't have the time to write because I don't enjoy writing in short spurts. I want time to become completely engrossed in my project. If I only have twenty minutes, I won't have time to get my brain in gear before I have to do chores, go to the dentist, clean up the kitchen, or the hordes of other things that take up my day.
So that is why I find myself staying up late at night after my husband is asleep, when the house is finally quiet. The TV is off and I have blessed silence for as long as I can keep my eyes open.
That's been my writing schedule for some time now. That time after midnight when the telephone doesn't ring, the dog is asleep,the cat is quiet in my big chair, and I am positive nobody will interrupt my thoughts.
That is also the time I sometimes send emails to our e-group. Once Jerry Hobbs emailed: "You couldn't sleep, huh?" He saw the time on the email I had sent the night before, 1:30 a.m. I think it was.
The problem of finding the time to write if you aren't a paid writer working for a paycheck seems to be a huge obstacle to writers. Classes are held on "How to Find Time to Write."
I'm reading Time to Write, a book with the advice of 100 professional writers telling how they do it. I'm sure if I had a deadline for my next novel and an editor breathing down my neck, I'd priortize my daily schedule a bit more carefully and writing would be in the Number One spot. But since I couldn't pay for all the How-to-Write books I buy with the money I've made writing, it is extremely hard to ignore my husband,let the laundry pile up, the bills go unpaid, let my friends talk to the answering machine, and let the refrigerator sit empty when we are out of milk and eggs. I can't do that and lose myself in writing a poem or essay. But I know I should. Every day I don't write, I grieve over another day that has passed without meeting my goals. My goals for this year include my goal for last year. Publish a book of poetry.
I'd love to hear from our members or other readers on how you make the time to write. I do think men find it easier to find time to write than women. In a session on writer's block and finding time to write, only one man showed up. He left before the class was half over. I just don't think he had the problem of the fifty women in the group who readily voiced their complaints. For one thing, I know he didn't have a husband at home who didn't like to watch TV alone.
Fireside Friday at the Shoppes of Murphy next Friday night. Three Netwest writers are featured along with all who bring something to read at open mic. "Like a sixties coffee house"
Come and enjoy and support our writers. Paul Donovan is the host.
So that is why I find myself staying up late at night after my husband is asleep, when the house is finally quiet. The TV is off and I have blessed silence for as long as I can keep my eyes open.
That's been my writing schedule for some time now. That time after midnight when the telephone doesn't ring, the dog is asleep,the cat is quiet in my big chair, and I am positive nobody will interrupt my thoughts.
That is also the time I sometimes send emails to our e-group. Once Jerry Hobbs emailed: "You couldn't sleep, huh?" He saw the time on the email I had sent the night before, 1:30 a.m. I think it was.
The problem of finding the time to write if you aren't a paid writer working for a paycheck seems to be a huge obstacle to writers. Classes are held on "How to Find Time to Write."
I'm reading Time to Write, a book with the advice of 100 professional writers telling how they do it. I'm sure if I had a deadline for my next novel and an editor breathing down my neck, I'd priortize my daily schedule a bit more carefully and writing would be in the Number One spot. But since I couldn't pay for all the How-to-Write books I buy with the money I've made writing, it is extremely hard to ignore my husband,let the laundry pile up, the bills go unpaid, let my friends talk to the answering machine, and let the refrigerator sit empty when we are out of milk and eggs. I can't do that and lose myself in writing a poem or essay. But I know I should. Every day I don't write, I grieve over another day that has passed without meeting my goals. My goals for this year include my goal for last year. Publish a book of poetry.
I'd love to hear from our members or other readers on how you make the time to write. I do think men find it easier to find time to write than women. In a session on writer's block and finding time to write, only one man showed up. He left before the class was half over. I just don't think he had the problem of the fifty women in the group who readily voiced their complaints. For one thing, I know he didn't have a husband at home who didn't like to watch TV alone.
Fireside Friday at the Shoppes of Murphy next Friday night. Three Netwest writers are featured along with all who bring something to read at open mic. "Like a sixties coffee house"
Come and enjoy and support our writers. Paul Donovan is the host.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
2008 Great year coming for Netwest writers
I've spent most of today working on schedules and calendars for our writers in NCWN West. The John C. Campbell Folk School has hosted a monthly reading for our members for several years, and I try to set up our yearly schedule early. This year we start in February and run through November. Only July is skipped due to a conflict with JCCFS events that month. We still have a few slots to fill in that schedule and will have that finished soon, I'm sure. This year we are happy to have Nancy Purcell from Brevard, Michael Beadle from Canton, Jayne Ferrer from Greenville, SC reading at JCCFS along with many of our local members and others who have read in past years. JCCFS is a wonderful venue for us because the audience often consists of people from far away states and even other countries who come to this wonderful school to study crafts and arts of all kinds, including writing.
Jan Davidson and others at the Folk School produced a documentary about the history of the school and it has now been nominated for an Emmy Award. The documentary is available on DVD by contacting the Folk School at www.folkschool.org. It is well worth the cost.
Twenty-three writing classes have been scheduled this year by Nancy Simpson, resident writer, and among the instructors are Nancy Peacock of Carrboro, NC. Check her out at www.nancypeacockbooks.com . I met Nancy briefly at the NCWN Fall Conference and I hope to take her class at JCCFS. Nancy Simpson and Gene Hirsch teach the poetry classes at JCCFS. They have inspired many writers to become poets.
As I plan the schedule and calendar events for Netwest, I promise myself not to overschedule myself to the point where I have no time for my own writing. But it gets harder and harder to do.
I will teach a week long class at JCCFS this spring. Your life - Your Stories begins March 16. If you haven't been to John C. Campbell Folk School to take a class, you must put that on your schedule for sometime soon. It can change your life.
Jan Davidson and others at the Folk School produced a documentary about the history of the school and it has now been nominated for an Emmy Award. The documentary is available on DVD by contacting the Folk School at www.folkschool.org. It is well worth the cost.
Twenty-three writing classes have been scheduled this year by Nancy Simpson, resident writer, and among the instructors are Nancy Peacock of Carrboro, NC. Check her out at www.nancypeacockbooks.com . I met Nancy briefly at the NCWN Fall Conference and I hope to take her class at JCCFS. Nancy Simpson and Gene Hirsch teach the poetry classes at JCCFS. They have inspired many writers to become poets.
As I plan the schedule and calendar events for Netwest, I promise myself not to overschedule myself to the point where I have no time for my own writing. But it gets harder and harder to do.
I will teach a week long class at JCCFS this spring. Your life - Your Stories begins March 16. If you haven't been to John C. Campbell Folk School to take a class, you must put that on your schedule for sometime soon. It can change your life.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Netwest members
We have a number of writers in Netwest who can and should be teaching workshops. Nancy Simpson, poet and former Program Coordinator is on my list of those who should teach a workshop for Netwest members and for the public. She has so much knowledge about poetry I have asked her to post some of her thoughts on this blog. I hope she will do that soon. Nancy has been a mentor to many of us in western NC and north GA.
Robert Kimsey is another member who has much to offer us in a class on self-publishing or any kind of writing.
Estelle Rice teaches a class on spiritual writing. I hope she will be able to do that for Netwest one Saturday.
Nancy Purcell is teaching at a community college and could teach a workshop also.
If you Netwesters are reading this blog, let me know who among us you'd like to have teach.
We also want to have another computer class soon with Kay Lake.
Meanwhile, I actually spent time today learning how to use Office Publisher, but I also wrote an essay. Even though my house is a complete mess from Christmas wrappings and boxes, dirty laundry, etc., I let it go and worked on my writing. I'm proud of me!
Saturday, December 29, 2007
I've not felt I had the time to join a book club, but Elizabeth at Phillips and Lloyd book shop on the square in Hayesville invited me to join the one that meets there each month. She said they are reading Vicki Lane's mystery Signs in the Blood which I already have on my book shelf. I read more non-fiction than fiction, but I've decided to try to read at least one fiction book each month and I'll start with Signs in the Blood. I met Vicki a few years ago and talked with her about her writing. She is from Florida but has lived in NC for thirty years. She writes mysteries that take place in the Appalachian area and she seems to be about my age because she mentions her favorite books when she was a child and many of them were mine also. She was in love with horses when she was small. I dreamed about horses and read all the Black Stallion Books by Walter Farley. I look forward to reading Vicki's books and I've signed up for her newsletter. She gives a good accounting of what her life as a beginning writer is like.
And she brings hope to all older writers who might think their time has passed. I'm proud to see Vicki has three books in her mystery series published and will now do another book that is a "stand-alone."
She also has a blog. Check her out at vickilanemysteries.blogspot.com
And she brings hope to all older writers who might think their time has passed. I'm proud to see Vicki has three books in her mystery series published and will now do another book that is a "stand-alone."
She also has a blog. Check her out at vickilanemysteries.blogspot.com
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)