Nice to Meet You

The park was in the city center.  It was as busy as a city street at lunch time with a crowd of runners, mothers pushing strollers and sandwich eaters from nearby offices.  Two tourists sat jabbering away in another language on the bench under the tree where Isla was to meet the mother. 

            Isla and Jack had been chosen from the adoption agency's catalogue of available families. Beth had decided to meet with Isla alone after she read their profile on the agency website.  Isla had written that she liked baking and had more than a dozen recipes for chocolate chip cookies and she included a list of recipes on a whim; vegan chocolate chips, chocolate chips and walnuts, dark chocolate and white chocolate chip mixed, triple chocolate chip, soft center chocolate chip cookies, thin and crisp ones, cakey ones. The agency had told her and Jack that the birth mothers looked for something they could relate to in the family's profiles and Isla thought that those details might strike a chord with some young woman.

            Beth remembered when she was in second grade eating cookies still hot from the oven and the smell of vanilla on her mother's hands when she picked them off the cookies sheet, waving her hand in the air after touching each cookie because it burned her fingers.  Beth thought vegan sounded promising, Isla would be careful about how to feed the baby and the couple stated in their profile they did not smoke but it was mostly the lavender ribbons that decorated Isla and Jack's presentation that caught her eye.  Beth pictured a nursery full of toys and little lavender flowers on the baby sheets in a white crib, set near a window with light streaming in where the baby would sleep each night.  Beth wanted this and a thousand other things for the baby that she would never have the money to do if she were to finish college.

The tourists stood up from the park bench as Isla approached. 

            Perfect, she thought sitting down, they would have some privacy. 

            Isla had pulled her long brown hair up in a pony tail and wore a light weight white top with a loose neck line. The May sun felt warm on her bare neck. She should have put sunblock on but she was in a rush and had forgotten.  She made a mental note to remember tomorrow as she distractedly touched her fingernails.  She did not want to appear nervous and consciously avoided biting them. Behind a jogging mother pushing a stroller was a girl with loose blond hair resting in casual waves on slender shoulders, her blue eyes blinked in the sun.  The girl approached the bench.  They two women had seen each other's pictures at the adoption agency and had exchanged messages but this was their first meeting in person and Isla recognized Beth.

            "Hello." Isla beamed trying not to appear over excited.

             Beth smiled and sat down.  They sat in silence for a few moments looking at the ducks waddling on the grass.  Isla waited for a moment but she had already thought of her first question.

            "How are you feeling?"

            Beth had mentioned morning sickness in her messages.  She was just over three months pregnant.

            "Better."

            "How is your family?" Isla said tentatively, thinking Beth could interpret that however she wanted.

            "Good."

            Her family was not good. Her mother had once found condoms in Beth's bathroom and told her not to come crying to her if she ever got pregnant.  Beth took her at her word and when Beth found out she was expecting, she made plans to move out with the excuse that it would be more convenient to live on campus.  Beth thought her mother had noticed her nausea and reluctance to eat but she had not said anything.   Her tummy did not show yet and she made a point of wearing loose clothing.  She would stay away until the baby was born citing the concentration for the tons of studying she needed to do during her first year of college as the reason. Isla stopped posing questions.

            She checked herself, Too stressful.  

            Instead she said, "It's beautiful weather. May is my favorite month of the year."

            Beth looked up at the sky, as if an answer might come from it.

            "I like April.  My birthday is in April."

            Isla nodded and smiled.  The two women continued to talk about the mother duck and ducklings padding into the water and eventually commented the brands of strollers that were whisking by in front of briskly walking mothers. Beth said she liked triple chocolate chip cookies and that lavender was her favorite color. Isla listened, hoping that the stream of conversation would keep up.  She tried not to look at Beth's tummy.   Isla wished that the little infant inside of her would jump out of the girl's belly and hop into Isla's lap, put tiny arms around her neck and tangle delicate fingers in her hair.  

             Isla had been thrilled but cautious with her first pregnancy.  It had been a wise choice because she miscarried at nine weeks.  She lost blood for a month following the miscarriage and was exhausted.  Six months later she had another miscarriage at six and a half weeks, that time she was prepared for the feeling of loss.  When she did not get pregnant again despite a full force effort to monitor her ovulation and checking sperm counts, she and Jack started fertility treatments.  After 11 cycles of injections and daily blood tests to determine when ovulation occurred and the injection of her husband's treated sperm with a large syringe through her vagina into the  uterus, just four times her period was late and she counted the days that passed until she made it to six or six and a half weeks and then she would see a bit of blood drop on the carefully folded toilet paper when she went to the bathroom. At last they had tried in vitro insemination. After 3 cycles of in vitro and two and a half years of trying she went into her doctor's office to hear him say that the blood tests for Isla's hormone levels showed that she had a one percent chance of getting pregnant, if any, and that did not take into consideration whether she would be able to carry out the pregnancy.   He would not prescribe anymore hormones to stimulate her ovaries, the risk was not worth the slim chance she had of having a baby. 

            Not worth it to you, thought Isla.

            She and Jack both wanted to adopt but Jack had left the work to Isla and when she talked about Beth to him he nodded his head in silence. One of the authorization papers that they had signed at the adoption agency required that they relinquish their request for a child if Isla were to get pregnant during the wait for a match with a birthmother.  Isla unconsciously put her hand on her stomach.  She was three weeks late.  In terms of pregnancy that meant that she could be 7 weeks pregnant.  She had been queasy the last week but it was probably stress.  Isla had been nodding as Beth spoke but now Beth had turned quiet.  Beth faced Isla and put out a trembling hand and smiled shyly.

            "I have to go. It was nice meeting you."

            "It was nice meeting you too, Beth.  You have a lovely personality and are very mature," Isla offered. The two women stood.

            Beth smiled and said, "I have to think about it."

            "Yes, of course.  You should."

            Isla watched Beth walk away and touched her hand to her belly. She turned to pick up her bag from the park bench and saw a slick spot of grease. She reached down to touch it as she took her purse.  It was where she had been sitting, her new navy pants would be ruined, she sighed.  She swung her purse over her shoulder and stopped still, looking at the red stain on her finger tips. 

Week 16 Revision and Portfolio

Revision activities and portfolio

When it came to choosing stories I suddenly worried that this was my last chance to revise and that there may be some small acorn of good in one that I wanted to toss so... I will revise a few of them over the weekend and see which ones turn out.  They are: the play- Teddy and Julio ( I really need a class on writing titles), Fair Is Fair- about driving with a baby in the car, the delivery room scene, Tess- a short story, and the car scene with a husband and wife. 

Revision

I always read my stories aloud before turning them in.  The sooner in the writing process I do that the more time I save myself.  It is a must-do and I always keep it in mind.

I also go through stories and try to cut down.  I usually look at the word count and then go through it and try to get the word count down, then reread it a few more times, cutting down each time.  Setting a word count forces me to clean up unnecessary wordage.  Just having that numerical goal in mind is helpful.

I had already learned to read the story backwards to find spelling errors but am sometimes too lazy, so I will make that one of my revision tactics for the portfolio.  It is no more time consuming than reading normally but each time I skim by it because it takes some concentration so this will be a good habit for me to get into.

I wrote out an autobiography for one of the characters that I was frustrated with and wrote a diary entry for another main character in another story, in order to get to know them better. I hope it gives me some material for rewriting some endings.

I will also read my stories before going to sleep.

Short Story: Storyville

Storyville

     Lucy slunk in the door and hid in the shadow.  Maybe no one would notice her if she stood very still.  Impossible in a town this size. Everyone knew everyone and it was common knowledge what  was meant to happen that day. She alos knew it was impossible to conceal herself dressed in white as she was.  She stood stock still, deciding what to do when suddenly it occurred to her that she had spent all her life up to that point expecting to meet prince charming around the next corner.  When she came face to face with a frog again and again, she invested in the relationship certain and convinced that she would kiss the frog through a bizarre misunderstanding and in rapid succession she would find herself standing in front of a prince dressed in white, beaming a magical smile at her.  She waited for that moment to materialize in her hands every day that as she walked that endless walk to a job she detested and that was crushing her creative being and a dark cloud settled in her stomach, weighing her down with each step.  She slowed as she crossed the river.  Hazel River, the water had a green brown tinge, it was hazel like the color of her eyes.  She slowed and wondered what the water felt like when it covered your head and you breathed your last breath and water rushed into your lungs, the mud sucking you down to eternity. 

     Lucy came to from her daze.  She walked steadily to the bar stool.  Frank Jr. was there. He had always been so patient, even when they were children at school, he never had a cross word.  His face was serene and accepting.  That was the only way to live in a town where each person was held to a role, a role that could not  be shaken or modified.  She sat on the bar stool with mounds of white dress beneath her. It made it impossible to sit, to sit comfortably was out of the question.  She teetered on the sticky bar stool, the crinoline scratched her legs.  It was then that she wished, her focus was so intense that it was painful.   She could feel the enormous white dress slide off her body, her mother's pearls became heavy and draped ridiculously around her shrinking neck.  Her grandmother's handkerchief with blue and lavander embroidery that she clutched in her right hand dropped to the floor and she realized that she no longer recognized her own hands. No, she no longer had hands.  She watched as green webbing formed between her fingers. The white high heeled shoes that Marissa had given her for the day lay distant, under the bar stool. It all fell away, something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue. She suddenly felt like herself.  Green and shiny, small, she hopped down from the bar stool. Frank nodded the other direction and she had no explanations to give because no one even noticed her leave.  She hopped out the door in her new form, no her true form. She hopped tirelessly to the Hazel River and jumped to where she had always desired to go, to where she belonged.

Tiny Master

What I do well

     My mother never spanked my brother and me though my brother pushed all her buttons all the time.  She would sometimes loose her patience and raise her voice, but did not raise her hand-my father, on the other hand preferred the old fashioned way.  Maybe I was heeding this example when my son was very little, I quickly noticed that the well deserved swat on the seat of the pants was taking us nowhere fast.  He was generally good but the occasional childish outburst worsened, he became increasingly stubborn (wonder where he got that from) and the behaviour I wanted to eradicate became more entrenched with a 'swat.'  It also served to heighten my anger, bad sign.  

     Positive reinforcement for good behaviour was well and good but I also started 'talking' to him about the given behaviour I wanted to correct-explaining the dangers of running away while crossing the street (that must be an instinct for toddlers) describing my expectations, we will not eat pasta and sauce with our hands even if you are two years old, compassion, I understood his frustration at having a toy taken away by a playmate, my brother and I did  that until our teens and managed to stay friends as adults but, I insisted, 'we do not hit'.  When we talk there is no shouting, no punishing, there are no angry words, we simply talk. Talks are not lectures, interaction is encouraged and I ask, 'What do you think?' 'What would a better way have been?' as well as the opportune pantomime of the offending behaviour and due pantomime of my stomach lurching in response to it. Talking is an event that can go on for a long time, depending on the gravity of the situation.  The talk about secretly taking pictures during class time in and posting them went on for two days in fifth grade.  Now when I lift a finger straight and tense in front of my face and give a brief and piercing glance my son knows a 'talk' looms close by and prefers backing down to listening to me drone.  

     I walked into his small bedroom one evening when the quiet had been interrupted by an outburst (his), an unheeded request (mine) and another outburst (probably both) and, enunciating each syllable I calmly announced that a talk  was surely necessary. He slowed to a stop, moaned and asked me to punish him rather than talk, 'I am too tired for a talk,' he said. 'No, we are  going to talk about it.' He closed his angry brown eyes, threw his little blonde-brown head back and fell on his bed in mock faint.  I sat down on the edge of the adolescent bed scattered with iphone, ipod, teddy bears and minions, looking at the crumpled form, unmoving in the effort to drive home the idea that the thought of 'talking' had the power to send him into catharsis, and I began to talk to my captive audience.

Poem: Sweet Smell

Sweet Smell

Dusty, hot and dry

the June sun has baked

the sidewalks.

Sudden rain reveals the smell of concrete

that is fresh and

unfamiliar.

The small debris that has gathered on the pavement is 

whisked away and trampled grass stands straighter and greener,

where moments before it had been crushed by rushing feet.

The dull thudding sound of tires in the street has turned

to a swoosh like a wave rushing on the beach in summer,

the tantalizing memory of vacation softens the air.

As the splashing drops loosen grime from the windows,

he closes the brown striped umbrella and secures it under his arm

letting the rain freckle mist in his curly hair.

It drips lusciously on his neck, tempting him to

take off his shoes and feel the warm, wet,

sweet-smelling cement under his toes.

The silver drops on the back of his hand glisten,
sparkling on fine dark blond hairs

and slide down the tips of his slender fingers 
like singular gems.

Poem: Diving In

Diving In

When everything is coming at you out of left field, right and straight on

When you are walking on pins and needles

When you hear voices and have no mother to prompt you on

When the whirring in your ears are thoughts running pell-mell in your head

Clouding the solution in sight

When you've stepped off a cliff, where you perched on a ledge

Your Blackberry doesn't get service

You haven't a lick of a chance or a flicker of hope to hold

Obliterate the chatter, the breeze bearing the weight of words and dive gracefully, grandly, knowingly to

Sanctuary

WEEL 15 DISCUSSION BOARD THREE BIRD BY BIRD READER'S JOURNAL

How is 'Looking around' part of the writing  frame of mind?

The concept of this chapter is that we learn to pay attention and then communicate that through writing. It struck me when Lamott said that it is the job of the writer to present a viewpoint clearly, to see people as they really are and to do that 'we have to know who we are in the most compassionate possible sense.  I think that the compassion we show others gives us a perception of how they are deep down, not just the superficial analysis that we usually make.  Of course to have compassion it works best if we practice that all the time, so that we perceive it all the time in others, not just when we need to access information for writing.  Our compassion can only be fully felt if we have compassion for ourselves though.  It also rings very true when Lamott notes that the conscious mind blocks the feeling of oneness.  Feeling too much slows us down and so we apply our conscious but it distances us from our intuitions and instincts of compassion.  Since we cannot effectively walk around feeling, crying and emoting over all the things that could potentially move us, she suggests we have 'reverence,' and to think of it as 'awe' and 'presence' in the world.  This is important when studying acting too, come to think of it-it helps in personal relationships too.  It seems it would be a good general rule to follow whenever we have the energy and enough attention to apply it.  I also liked the idea that we can see 'a sign of God' and 'holiness... inevitable grace' in the world, though I think that the spiritual aspect can be hard to capture  and illusive.

Do you agree with the Moral Point of View?

Lamott's explanation of the 'moral point of view' clears up an issue that I often wonder about. Lamott says that if we start stories and don't finish them we can then ask ourselves if it is really meaningful to us, or, perhaps we are not invested in what we are writing.  I think that is a valuable thought but I also think that sometimes we (or I) do not face our feeling on a subject and try to slide by on the 'folk saying' that she mentions in the chapter on broccoli. It also clears up confusion that I feel about stating my opinion or evaluation of something.  I hesitate to pronounce myself an authority on anything, surely someone else knows more. But I can tell you my point of view, my specific feelings of compassion and describe an aspect that I think I have noticed that has not been explained with quite the feeling that I have about it.  When I read last pages of the chapter that say, 'a moral position is not a message, it is a passionate caring inside you, I think that I can do that.  I may not be the ultimate authority on anything but I can be passionate and I can care in my own special way.  Lamott says to write about the things that are important to us-love, death, sex and survival- I am not an authority on any of those items, but I can say what, in those elements,  has struck my compassion.

What is the thing that the author calls 'broccoli'

Broccoli, according to Lamott, is the stultifying of our intuitions, our higher selves that we silence with clichè and unoriginal thinking. It is the 'moment of real feeling and insight... that is real and ripe with possibilities'.  'Broccoli' is self conscious dousing of that flame. We were trained to do this because we were 'corrected, humiliated, or punished'  as children for saying what we felt intuitively.  It makes me aware of being compassionate again, with myself, with others, to be encouraging with others.l

WEEK 15 CLOUDING YOUR WAY TO A STORY

Character: H.

lonely, wants approval, feels she is aging and it makes her self-conscious, she has recently turned to religion for solace and comfort

Situations that provoke emotional states

lost her job at a doctor's office, working part-time as a sales assistant at a make-up counter and tries to make the best of it because of her natural cheerfulness, mother talks repeatedly about losing weight which deepens her lack of self worth

Secondary characters

W. is the minister of the church that H. has recently joined; married to I.  Heather is secretly in love with him but does not admit this even to herself.  She marries S.in an effort to emulate the peaceful, godly life that she sees I. living.

Standing at the Altar

H. stood at the altar in a short white lace dress, white waist length jacket with large gold buttons that caught the sunlight coming through the stained glass windows of Christ Lutheran Church, near her suburban home.  She wore a white pillbox hat on her blond bobbed hair. She would turn 50 in September and R. wondered if the brief two month engagement was orchestrated so H. could have the relief of beginning her new life with S. before she turned 50.  J., leaned toward R. and commented that H. looked lovely. 

            'Yes,' R. whispered as she watched the players on the altar having their pictures taken. H.'s  cheeks were flushed and her eyes smiled, thought R.  J. added with emphasis and a note of pride that H. had lost nearly 60 pounds for the wedding. No small feat in three months.   That had always been a point of concern for J.  H. was overweight, had divorced after her son was born and her ex-husband had died two years ago from cirrhosis but the weight issue was something that J. came back to more than any other.  She  called H. on a daily basis to ask her if she had gotten exercise, when H. answered that she had been busy and forgotten, J. invited her on 'nature walks' so they could talk.  With the best of intentions, the talks were usually about the solutions that J. suggested H. put in place to fix her disheveled life. Not surprisingly, H. carried a slightly startled look on her face. 

            'He's not got personality, he's bland.'

  H. needed this, she needed a husband like the air she breathed.  Her divorce had blindsided everyone.  Everyone except perhaps H.  

Week Thirteen Discussion Board Two Short-short Story

Week Thirteen Discussion Board Two Short-short Story

       Early that day the weather turned and the snow was melting into dirty water. We hid the painted Easter eggs in the yard. Mine were pink and purple. I loved pink and wanted to make pink and blue lines on my eggs, the colours ran and turned purple.  My mother said they were lovely.  They were.  The purple was an intense shade and I was proud that my mother looked at my creation so approvingly.  My sister, Jess, was hiding her eggs too, where she thought I would not find them but I saw her out of the corner of my eye.  It wasn't difficult to figure out her hiding places, they were all obvious; plainly visible in the crook of the tree roots near the patio, inside a potted plant, on top of the bird feeder.   Jess was older than me, you'd never know it though.  She was a little taller but her face and expression told a different story: she looked surprised and confused.  She was confused. She wasn't like other kids, she was slow to understand and did the most obvious things and expected that we would find her antics amazing.  She had black curly hair and was sweet in her own bewildered way but she couldn't remember anything at school and even forgot what she was thinking when she raised her hand and the teacher finally called on her.  She would put her hand up again and tell the teacher, again, that she couldn't remember what she wanted to say.  Finally, the teacher would ask her to put her hand down and just be quiet.  It was embarrassing, I was glad we were not in the same class, it was hard enough that everyone knew we were sisters.  I was thinking of what other obvious places Jess would try to put her brown and green eggs.  She had tried to make green and red stripes on her dyed eggs the day before and her colours ran too; they turned brown and looked like something we should keep around for Thanksgiving.  I was thinking about her messy brown-green eggs when I saw a white Tretorn sneaker in the dirty water of a puddle at the bottom of the driveway.  It belonged to Jess.  She would only wear those white Tretorns and rebelled furiously when Mother tried to buy any other brand of tennis shoes for her.  My mother was calling us both and I had looked up toward the kitchen window where she stood and then out to the street where Jess was a moment before.  But Jess wasn't there, she didn't answer and the street was empty.  It was the last time I saw Jess.  I couldn't stop thinking that it was my fault that she was gone, that she left because my mother said my eggs were pretty, or because I was embarrassed when we walked home from school together and I tried to stay a few steps ahead of her and didn't answer her continuous stream of nonsensical questions as she hounded me with her words or maybe the dirty puddle of water had sucked her in. Either way, it was me or the dirty water that made Jess disappear into thin air.

The story in the text is about unhappy people, like the one I wrote.  The baby is innocent like the older sister in my story.  I think that the snow melting and dirty water described in the first line of the story set the tone for this kind of scene.  The stories are completely different but the tone is similarly sad and ends with no solution.

I chose this line because it reminded me of Easters in Minnesota and quickly brought to mind the memory of hiding Easter eggs in the yard with my son when he was little.  The rest of the story came about as a result of that memory.

Three elements of a short story:

media res: the story starts in the middle of an action, just like in the ten minute play, the story starts strong and at a moment of conflict

Rising action: the complication and escalation of the primary conflict, in this case the argument over who would keep the baby.

Resolution: The resolution is often brief but in a short story it may not even be present.  What is important is presenting the conflict and the emotion that we gain from hearing it described.  The resolution, as in 'Crossing the River Zbrucz', is not the point of the story, it is in describing the scene that the author conveys meaning.

WEEK FOURTEEN DISCUSSION BOARD THREE BIRD BY BIRD AND YOU

What early experiences shaped Lamott's writing life?

Lamott's father had great impact on her writing ideals. Her father set an example for her and gave her a standard to work toward.  I was struck by his patient advice.  The one that I would apply to my own writing is: doing a little bit every day, like you are doing piano scales. 'Do it by prearrangement, do it as a debt of honor. Make a commitment to finish things.' (pg xxii) I especially feel that 'finishing' is something that would help me. I sometimes start off with the enthusiasm of an idea and then get lost or discouraged when the image fades and the words are not rolling of the tip of the pen.  I think those moments are blocks to our creativity, moments when we censor ourselves too much and we need to ride that wave of doubt and continue through it without getting discouraged.

Short assignments: How does the advice of taking it bird by bird fit with the writing process?

This whole chapter was inspiring.  The idea of taking it bit by bit, or 'bird by bird', is just what gets us through difficult situations in writing or anything else in life.  The concept is clearly laid out by Lamott when she says, 'all I am going to do ... is write one paragraph that sets the story,.. paint a picture in words... figure out a one inch piece of my story to tell, one small scene, one memory, one exchange.'  (pg  18) Not only does Lamott break down the longer process into a comforting series of smaller steps that lead us progressively toward a goal, but she also indicates that we should focus on an element that gets our attention or a detail of the story that we can hold in our minds and describe for the reader. 

Shitty first drafts: what kind of attitude do you need to get writing done according to Lamott?

Lamott tells us to just get our ideas out of our heads and down on paper, no censorship or perfect first drafts.  This is freeing and sensible.  It makes the process easier than if we expect to get an impressive first draft and squelch anything that is less than complete.  The image of 'pouring it (the draft) out and letting it romp all over the place, knowing that no one is going to see it and that you can shape it later' (pg 22) helped me take a different view of first drafts.  Not only should we free ourselves of the inner criticism and take joy in producing everything we have rolling around in our heads, we can discover some lesser known element that was in there hiding with the more obvious images that may bring to life something more subtle and unique.

Bird by Bird, Lamott, Anne, Anchor Books, 1995