tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55688119492143492732024-03-14T03:43:11.104-07:00Odd LotsPosts about my writing or writing in general and excerpts from the book I'm writing.TChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06460700547895207534noreply@blogger.comBlogger13125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5568811949214349273.post-30046663289338481902018-08-17T10:44:00.001-07:002018-08-17T10:44:35.469-07:00Mark Your Calendars! Book Launch Scheduled!So excited to announce that we'll be launching <i>Darling Girl</i>, my debut novel, at BookPeople on the corner of 6th and North Lamar, on Sunday, October 21, 2018, at 2:00 p.m. I'll be reading, answering questions, and signing books purchased at BookPeople. You can pre-order your copy of <i>Darling Girl </i>now at https://www.bookpeople.com/event/terry-h-watkins-darling-girl. I hope to see you there.<br />
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<br />TChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06460700547895207534noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5568811949214349273.post-37871875938688814272018-01-10T13:02:00.000-08:002018-01-10T13:02:38.673-08:00Every writer should have a professional library that includes books aimed at both the craft and business of writing. Here are a few of the resources you'd find on my shelves. (This list is tailored for U.S. writers, but I am sure there are equivalents in your countries.) You won't need every book or magazine on this list, but you'll definitely find at least some of them useful.<br />
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<ul>
<li>A subscription to <a href="http://subscriptions.writersdigest.com/Writers-Digest/Magazine" target="_blank">Writers' Digest Magazine</a> - available in both online and print versions.</li>
<li>A subscription to <a href="https://www.pw.org/" target="_blank">Poets & Writers Magazine</a> - available in both online and print versions.</li>
<li>A subscription to <a href="https://www.publishersweekly.com/" target="_blank">Publishers Weekly</a> - available in both online and print versions.</li>
<li><a href="https://lunch.publishersmarketplace.com/" target="_blank">Publishers Lunch</a> - I get the free version of this newsletters.</li>
<li><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Writers-Market-2018-Trusted-Published/dp/1440352631/ref=mt_paperback?_encoding=UTF8&me=" target="_blank">Writer's Market 2018</a> - Kindle and Paperback versions available.</li>
<li><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Guide-Literary-Agents-2018-Published/dp/1440352666/ref=pd_bxgy_14_img_2?_encoding=UTF8&pd_rd_i=1440352666&pd_rd_r=J26GQEHP05H824CP5G5V&pd_rd_w=muDsI&pd_rd_wg=0lOsN&psc=1&refRID=J26GQEHP05H824CP5G5V" target="_blank">Guide to Literary Agents 2018</a> - Kindle and Paperback versions available.</li>
<li><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Novel-Short-Story-Writers-Market/dp/1440352658/ref=pd_bxgy_14_img_3?_encoding=UTF8&pd_rd_i=1440352658&pd_rd_r=J26GQEHP05H824CP5G5V&pd_rd_w=muDsI&pd_rd_wg=0lOsN&psc=1&refRID=J26GQEHP05H824CP5G5V" target="_blank">Novel and Short Story Writer's Market 2018</a> - Kindle and Paperback versions available.</li>
<li><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Poets-Market-2018-Trusted-Publishing/dp/1440352674/ref=pd_sim_14_4?_encoding=UTF8&pd_rd_i=1440352674&pd_rd_r=VPNPH88GKJK991XGJB8R&pd_rd_w=cJ0wN&pd_rd_wg=PVtgo&psc=1&refRID=VPNPH88GKJK991XGJB8R" target="_blank">Poet's Market 2018</a> - Kindle and Paperback versions available.</li>
<li><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Childrens-Writers-Illustrators-Market-2018/dp/1440352682/ref=pd_sim_14_5?_encoding=UTF8&pd_rd_i=1440352682&pd_rd_r=VPNPH88GKJK991XGJB8R&pd_rd_w=cJ0wN&pd_rd_wg=PVtgo&psc=1&refRID=VPNPH88GKJK991XGJB8R" target="_blank">Children's Writer's & Illustrators Market</a> - Kindle and Paperback versions available.</li>
<li>T<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Complete-Handbook-Novel-Writing-Everything/dp/1440348391/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1515617425&sr=1-2&keywords=writers+digest" target="_blank">he Complete Handbook of Novel Writing</a> - Kindle and Paperback versions available.</li>
<li><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00IPPIN4W/ref=sspa_dk_detail_2?psc=1&pd_rd_i=B00IPPIN4W&pd_rd_wg=B62Z4&pd_rd_r=1ESN7XTM2F5X1Z86Q5TZ&pd_rd_w=pQyOG&keywords=writers%20digest" target="_blank">Planning Your Novel</a> - Kindle and Paperback versions available.</li>
<li><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Understanding-Show-Dont-Tell-Builders-ebook/dp/B01M0BE4UP/ref=pd_sim_351_3?_encoding=UTF8&psc=1&refRID=KRR57QY68BCSPQ2HQE2G" target="_blank">Understanding Show, Don't Tell</a> - Kindle and Paperback versions available.</li>
<li><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Fool-Proof-Outline-No-Nonsense-Brainstorming-ebook/dp/B0725HWG19/ref=pd_sim_351_26?_encoding=UTF8&psc=1&refRID=KX5K6RMSFAH0GHCFB4TV" target="_blank">Fool Proof Outline</a> - Kindle only.</li>
</ul>
Some of these will get you started. They won't all work for you, but they will get you started.TChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06460700547895207534noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5568811949214349273.post-58649897828700893832017-11-13T18:26:00.005-08:002017-11-13T18:26:29.702-08:00Big News!<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">I am pleased to announce that my debut novel, Darling Girl, will be published Fall 2018 from Green Writers Press / Green Place Books! Official press release to follow.</span></div>
TChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06460700547895207534noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5568811949214349273.post-46062653504505082412017-07-20T16:21:00.002-07:002017-07-20T16:21:53.434-07:00Moon Walk<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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48 years ago today, a boy drove an old post office truck from
Atlanta to Baton Rouge across a hurricane-ravaged coastline to spend the day
with me. He brought two friends to share the driving. They arrived in our
temporary home, a two-bedroom apartment – a stop along the way to some other
place. My mother fed them and found room for them to sleep while she moved me
into her room along with my youngest brother to preserve my virtue. I remember
being glad my father wasn’t there to spoil it all. That night, he and I, with
my family and his friends, watched a man walk on the moon. After that wonder,
we made out in the back of the truck, so hot and so sweaty in the Louisiana
dark that we could hardly hold on to one another. He held up my long and heavy
hair and blew on the back of my neck to cool me off. I touched his face – high
cheekbones, straight nose, soft lips to memorize it forever. We were the only
two people in the world when men walked on the moon. In the morning, he and the
other boys drove away while I cried and my heart broke. Later, I lay on the
couch with my head in my mother’s lap while she stroked my hair and told me
there would be other boys. There were, but none like him.<o:p></o:p></div>
TChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06460700547895207534noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5568811949214349273.post-14437810768650742582017-06-08T11:15:00.001-07:002017-06-08T11:15:10.921-07:00Novel NewsThe Untitled Manuscript finally has a title. I can't reveal it just yet, but I'll be letting you know very soon. I am so excited!TChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06460700547895207534noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5568811949214349273.post-49835978696254268992017-04-24T16:06:00.000-07:002017-04-24T16:06:03.407-07:00It was the early nineties and I'd just embarked on my third career as a middle school Social Studies teacher. I meant to be an English teacher but there wasn't an opening at the school where I wanted to teach. The principal called and said she had a social studies opening and the certification test was tomorrow and I should take it. I did, I passed, and now I had 150+ 8th graders to whom I was to teach mostly American History from the arrival of humans through Reconstruction, along with some geography, civics, and some other stuff I wasn't sure about.<br />
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I wasn't exactly prepared. My history was learnt mainly from old movies with Paul Muni playing a leading role. I'd been taught the America Revolution as the War of Colonial Rebellion in Australia and the American Civil War as the War of Northern Aggression in Atlanta. I knew more about the Boer War and the English atrocities committed therein than I did about the Genocide of Indigenous Peoples in the U.S.<br />
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Nevertheless, we muddled through. I was often only paragraphs ahead of my students. Sometimes we learned things simultaneously. We didn't always follow the syllabus exactly. We weren't tested in those days so there was some flexibility in what I taught. We made windows for imaginary cabins out of brown paper and lard. We cooked cornbread in Dutch ovens we buried just off the soccer field.i dressed as Christopher Columbus when we read from his ships’ logs.<br />
<br />
About the time we were to start studying the Articles of Confederation, I learned that the kids were to read The Diary of Anne Frank in English class. I asked my colleague what she taught about the background and was stunned to learn that the two brief non-fiction selections in the textbook were all she had planned. There was no time for more, not if they were to cover the play in one six weeks. That’s right, the play not the actual diary. Not the text written by a girl their age in her own words that exquisitely describes what it is to be an adolescent, but a forty-year-old play script. Not the book that I devoured in Johannesburg one cold and wet weekend. Not the book that helped shaped the way I look at the world. (BTW: One of my pet peeves: unless you are involved in theatre, you are never going to need to read a script. You can learn that on the job. Total W.A.S.T.E. of time. You want to teach kids about plays, take them to the theatre!) But not my department, not my concern. I bit my tongue and moved on.<br />
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Then one day, as kids entered my classroom, I overheard, “I don’t get it. Why were they in an attic with people they didn’t know? Why didn’t they just leave?”<br />
I flipped into overdrive. Screw the Articles of Confederation. We were going to background the heck out of the Diary. My students would understand why the Franks hid in the attic. They would understand what led up to their going into hiding. They would understand who the Nazis were and what they did. They would understand.<br />
<br />
Daily boxes arrived containing copies of the diary so they could read the original text, videos that showed Kristallnacht and reproductions of propaganda. The Holocaust Museum in D.C. had just opened and I got them to send me everything they could including the biographies of 120 children who were murdered during by the Nazis. I took a seminar in Boston from Facing History and Ourselves. We immersed ourselves (as much as we could) in what it was like for European Jews during and after the rise of the Nazis. Colleagues asked if I was Jewish and, if not, why did this matter to me. I just said that it was important that they understand the context of what they were reading. My students devoured whatever I offered them.<br />
<br />
Then, and I don’t remember this part very well, I became involved with the Day of Remembrance committee. My friend Regina Rogoff, whose daughter Sarah would later be my student, may have introduced me. Ultimately, my students were offered the opportunity to participate in the Yom Hoshoah activities to be held at the state capital, a ten minute bus ride from our campus. I could only take one class, the one just before lunch – thirty-two eighth graders. We would only miss my class and lunch which we’d brown bag on the capital grounds after we done our bit.<br />
Our bit was to read names for an hour during the twenty-four hour vigil that was being held in the new underground rotunda of the capital expansion. The committee provided us with a list of names of victims of the Holocaust. We divided our list and each student spent hours practicing the unfamiliar Eastern European names which proved challenging for tongues accustomed to the rhythms of Hispanic and English names. I mustered a roll of quarters, a bunch of brown bag lunches, a bag full of bananas for desert, our list of names, and the courage to load 32 eighth-graders onto a city bus.<br />
As we boarded and they dropped quarters into the fare box, I watched the horrified faces of the passengers. We might have been a Mongol horde descending from the steppes to pillage civilization. The day before our outing I had given them a version of the speech my mother always gave us when she took us out in public. “Remember, today you represent not just yourself, but all eighth-graders. You represent your families, our school, the Austin Independent School District, and your respective ethnicities. Finally, you represent the people whose names you will read. You cannot let any of thee groups down.” No pressure.<br />
<br />
Our bus ride involved minimal pillaging although one kids left his lunch on board and a passenger chased us down to return it. We trooped into the capital under a vow of (almost) silence. We signed in and took our places in line, each child clutching a photocopied paper with the names they were to read carefully highlighted. They ran the show; I was a bystander in this event.<br />
The underground rotunda is divided into a group of skylighted alcoves. A reader stood in each of these alcoves, names read non-stop for twenty-four hours. I watched with pride as my students flowed in and out of the alcoves, carefully reading from their prepared lists and returning to our line, now formed up slightly out of the way. Somehow, a sunbeam illuminated each reader. One student told me that it was if we were sending the names up to God. We were quietly discussing our luncheon on the lawn when one of the organizers approached me. The next group of readers wasn’t here yet. Could we fill in for a while?<br />
<br />
You don’t just spring things on eighth-graders. They need preparation. They don’t like to be surprised. I turned to the group waiting and asked, “What do you think?” Their response was immediate and unanimous. Yes, they would do it. Just give them the names. One student voiced a concern I know they all shared, “What if we mispronounce the names?” Another answered him, “God will know who we mean.” I coughed and turned away to hide tears.<br />
<br />
We kept rotating through. Occasionally a student would check with me about pronouncing a name. I stood and watched as they took over organizing which names would be read next. They ate lunch standing in line waiting to read, making sure they didn't make a mess in this secular space space become a sanctuary. They were their best selves. When relieved, we raced to the bus stop, pushing our deadline. We disembarked at the corner nearest the school and suddenly they were their everyday selves again, jostling, laughing, noisy kids as we raced to their next classes. I hope that on Yom Hoshoah, those students remember victims of the Holocaust with true understanding, but that they also remember themselves on that day<br />
<br />TChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06460700547895207534noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5568811949214349273.post-31094952573610286812017-03-08T15:37:00.000-08:002017-03-08T15:37:29.970-08:00The State of the ThingMy novel is now closer to done than not. This picture shows the view behind my desk. The chapters in blue are complete and edited. Chapters in pink are in progress. Chapters in yellow are yet to be written down but are in my head. The chapters in green are really well written but don't advance the plot. I'm calling them interludes. They may have to go. Or maybe I'll post them here as "extras." Keep watching this blog for exciting news about my novel.<br />
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<br />TChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06460700547895207534noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5568811949214349273.post-14654046737831664582016-10-27T13:13:00.002-07:002016-12-30T14:07:07.082-08:00<h3>
<b>Writing Retreat</b></h3>
<i>Revised 11/4/2016</i><br />
<br />
Last weekend I attended a writing workshop that, in some ways, I found transformative. A diverse group in age, geographic origin, style, and more, it was incredibly informative to be immersed in my craft and to be exposed to such variety of voice, tone, and style. Hosted by the talented and inspiring Ariel Gore from the <a href="http://www.literarykitchen.com/" target="_blank">Literary Kitchen</a>, it helped me explore topics that I usually avoid. One of the writing prompts inspired the following which I plan to use as I work on my novel during NaNoWriMo 2016.<br />
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>On the Altar of Writing</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<h3>
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<ul>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 107%; text-indent: -0.25in;">The
perfect journal</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 107%; text-indent: -0.25in;">My
music playlist/mix tape – music that features in the book</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 107%; text-indent: -0.25in;">Museums
everywhere – Vermeer, Van Gogh, Velasquez, Khalo, Gentileschi, Cassatt, Matisse,
Mondrian,</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 107%; text-indent: -0.25in;">The
family picture in which I wear a yellow sweater and all of us wear frightened
looks</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 107%; text-indent: -0.25in;">My
passports – past and present</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 107%; text-indent: -0.25in;">Rocks
from the beach where three oceans meet</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 107%; text-indent: -0.25in;">The
sound of my mother’s voice reading aloud</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 107%; text-indent: -0.25in;">The
warmth of my father’s gaze when he was happy</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 107%; text-indent: -0.25in;">The
loss and gain of moving and moving and moving…</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 107%; text-indent: -0.25in;">My
mother chewing her lower lip</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 107%; text-indent: -0.25in;">My
Granny, hand on her cheek, little finger on her lip, and all her memories in
one dented cookie tin</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 107%; text-indent: -0.25in;">My
grandfather’s round belly which is now always with me</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 107%; text-indent: -0.25in;">My
grandmother’s tight-lipped mouth and saved ration cards. You can’t use the
cards if you have no money.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 107%; text-indent: -0.25in;">Uncle
Larry’s glass eye</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 107%; text-indent: -0.25in;">Long
dead aunts and uncles I never met</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 107%; text-indent: -0.25in;">Colored
pens and pencils</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 107%; text-indent: -0.25in;">The
grocery money that sent me to junior college dressed as a candy striper</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 107%; text-indent: -0.25in;">A
long history of women making bad decisions over men and making bad decisions in
general</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 107%; text-indent: -0.25in;">The
memory of dead babies – hers and mine</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 107%; text-indent: -0.25in;">Every word I ever read</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 107%; text-indent: -0.25in;">Australia,
Africa, Antarctica, China, and all the other places I have been</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 107%; text-indent: -0.25in;">The
sound of my father, my father, my father</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 107%; text-indent: -0.25in;">Every
word, every word, every word…</span></li>
</ul>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small; font-weight: normal;">I seek the perfect journal; the one which will reveal all the stories I
have to tell. Hand-tooled leather. Silk wrapped. Hand-made paper. I have
shelves of failed attempts at perfection, some still wrapped in plastic. All
beautiful but sterile. They offer no respite from this longing to deliver what
waits inside me.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small; font-weight: normal;">I know only parts of my mother’s story, the parts that intersect with
mine. She is puzzle forever missing pieces. I see her as if from the corner of
my eye, fleetingly in and out of focus. Gone before I can turn and catch her.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small; font-weight: normal;">Someday, somewhere in a nursing home, I will show my passports to anyone
who stops to pass the time with me. “See,” I will tell them, “I went to China to
teach English. To Antarctica to see the penguins. To South Africa the year that
Nelson Mandela went prison for life.” I was not always this remnant, this cast
off. Men and women came when I crooked my finger or smiled a certain way. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small; font-weight: normal;">Not
one of them knew I cared.</span></div>
<i><div style="text-align: left;">
<i><span style="font-size: x-small; font-weight: normal;">tbc</span></i></div>
</i></h3>
</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast">
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
TChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06460700547895207534noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5568811949214349273.post-53499893227192352542016-09-14T11:28:00.003-07:002016-10-27T12:40:26.312-07:00Time Flies<br />
<br />
Especially when writing has been such a struggle. I haven't produced anything usable all summer and it's been so frustrating. So to help inspire some creativity or resurrect some memories, I've started working on a playlist of the music that provided a soundtrack to my childhood.<br />
<br />
When I was very young, my father had eclectic taste in music with a strong leaning toward rockabilly and country. My mother favored the melodramatic and anything that told a complete story. One grandmother enjoyed gospel music and the other the parlor music of her youth.<br />
<br />
So here are some of the songs I hear in my head when I'm writing. With a little luck, I'll soon have links to all of these.<br />
<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Dead in the Coach Ahead</li>
<li><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The Little Old Ford</li>
<li><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>One Saturday Night in a Barroom</li>
<li><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Nadine</li>
<li><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Honky Tonk Angel</li>
<li><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Moon Light Bay</li>
<li><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Detour</li>
<li><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Mairie’s Wedding</li>
<li><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Rising of the Moon</li>
<li><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Wild Side of Life</li>
<li><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Only A Bird in a Gilded Cage</li>
<li><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Lydia, The Tatooed Lady</li>
<li><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Teen Angel</li>
<li><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Whispering Hope</li>
<li><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The Band Played On</li>
<li><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The Daring Young Man on the Flying Trapeze </li>
</ul>
<br />
<br />
Thanks for reading.TChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06460700547895207534noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5568811949214349273.post-1878015214797374292016-04-28T09:52:00.003-07:002016-04-28T19:45:49.252-07:00Gone - Part 2 Gramma’s looking right at me now and I start worrying that there’s something else, something new I need to have a good excuse about in case she asks. Finally she says, “Your father will be home for dinner. He hasn’t gone anywhere,” Well that’s good ‘cause I’m all out of excuses for stuff I’ve done but now my mind is racing around for the right question, the one she’ll answer.<br />
Everybody always says I just blurt out whatever I’m thinking but that’s not true. I think lots of stuff nobody knows about like how come I don’t stutter in my head and how will we know if Henry David stutters too if he doesn’t ever talk and why the boys all have two names and I don’t even have one. I’m real careful about what I say on account of sometimes it makes my Mama cry and where is my Mama? She never goes anywhere alone. I don’t even think I’ve ever seen my Mama alone, and if I ask that, will Gramma answer?<br />
But she’s already moving down the hall saying, “Let’s look at pictures,” which is just about my favorite thing to do in the whole world so I don’t ask. Later Gramma plays the piano and we sing “Dead in the Coach Ahead” and “I’m Only a Bird in a Gilded Cage.” Grampa, who doesn’t sing, recites “Little Willie” and Gramma says “Oh, Laurie” in her aggravated voice which is practically her only voice. We have weenies and macaroni and cheese for dinner ‘cause that’s Henry David’s favorite but my Daddy still doesn’t come home and then it’s time for bed.<br />
They put us down in the back bedroom, the one that’s really mine since I stay there when I come on vacation which is different from just coming over to spend the night. Henry David is nearest the wall, Samuel Taylor in the middle so he won’t roll off and break like our cousin Amy did, and me on the outside ‘cause sometimes I have to get up in the middle of the night to make sure everything’s all right. The boys go to sleep right away but I stay awake listening for my Daddy’s car and hearing crickets and neighbors laughing and music far away…<br />
…And loud voices in the front room. I must have fallen asleep and it’s probably real late. I can’t tell who Gramma’s yelling at, so after I check to make sure the boys are still breathing, I crawl out of bed and tiptoe down the long hall towards the front room. I wonder if the places where the floor boards meet are like cracks in the sidewalk ‘cause I sure don’t want to break anybody’s back, especially not my Mama’s.<br />
My Daddy leans up against the wall and Gramma’s got her back up like a cat and she’s hissing “…your fault…” at my Daddy. I can tell she’s winding up to give him a piece of her mind so I better save him. I take a running jump at my Daddy and he catches me like always and swings me up high. I hug his neck and whisper “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy” right in his ear. He hugs me back right back real tight and I know everything is all right.<br />
My Daddy slides me around to his back and hooks his arms under my knees and I rest my chin on his shoulder so I can see what’s going on.<br />
Gramma stands across the room and I can tell she’s real mad. Her mouth is a thin line, her eyes are hard and mean, she vibrates like a guitar string, and it looks like her pin curls might just pop their metal clips at us. “She should be in bed,” she spits out.<br />
“You sleepy?” I shake my head “no” into my Daddy’s neck, and hang on tight.<br />
“Let’s go.”<br />
Gramma sputters now ‘cause she’s not through with us but my Daddy ignores her and grabs an afghan off the sofa on his way out the door. Gramma slams it hard behind us as we cross the yard.<br />
In front of the house, my Daddy tips me through the car window into the front seat, tossing the afghan over my head. Its dark and quiet out here. Me and my daddy are the only people awake in the whole world.<br />
“Up or down?” he asks and I say “down.”<br />
“You driving?” and I shake my head, “Not tonight.” He pushes a button and the soft top of car slides away while we glide away from the curb into the night.<br />
I sit for a while with the afghan covering my feet ‘cause they’re always cold but as we leave town and head toward the highway, I stretch out across the front seat and lay my head in my Daddy’s lap. There’s no crackle from the two-way radio like in the daytime and the regular radio’s playing real soft, rock ‘n roll on WLS out of Chicago, ‘cause all the radio stations around here go off the air at dark. My Daddy has one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the top of my head. The end of his cigarette glows red in the dark.<br />
“I can hear you thinking,” he says. “You’ll never fall asleep if you don’t stop. Just watch the stars and go to sleep.” And I try, but it’s real hard and my head is so full of stuff tonight, I probably got a question for every star I see flashing by.<br />
“What'd you do to make Gramma so mad?”<br />
“Your grandmother’s always a little bit aggravated at me.” And, boy, is that true! I don’t think Gramma can stand my Daddy. She’s just about the only person who can’t, ‘cause everybody else just loves my Daddy. ‘Course, I’m not sure Gramma can really stand anybody. But that’s not what’s bothering me tonight.<br />
I’m quiet for a while, listening to the sound of the car on the road and the music on the radio until, finally, I just blurt out “Where’s my Mama? If we’re not getting another baby, where’d she go?”<br />
My Daddy’s hand reaches across me to turn off the radio. He flicks his cigarette out of the car and, after a while, says, “Your mama’s real tired.” Well, of course she’s tired, it’s the middle of the night. Only me and my Daddy are ever up this time of night.<br />
“Is she at the house, our house?”<br />
“No, your mama, she’s gone away to rest – somewhere quiet.” I think about all the noise me and the boys make and I feel real bad. Except Henry David never makes any noise, and Samuel Taylor’s just a baby so the noise he makes doesn’t count, and it’s my fault, my fault, my fault.<br />
“When’s she coming back? She has to take me school shopping and bake cookies Friday for the end of Vacation Bible School.” There’s lots of stuff only my Mama does and who’s gonna take care of all that stuff if she’s not here?<br />
“Soon,” he says, “She’ll be back soon. Don’t worry. We’ll get your cookies. Go to sleep now. Go to sleep.”<br />
We drive on into the night, trees and stars and telephone wires flashing above us. My Mama doesn’t come home for a long time.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
TChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06460700547895207534noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5568811949214349273.post-74121017443391813022016-04-28T09:40:00.000-07:002016-04-28T19:42:24.972-07:00Jump Starting MyselfI've found it nearly impossible to write while ill. I've managed to squeak out five hundred or so rather shabby words in the last month. Very depressing. Here is the piece I read at Spike Gillespie's writers' group back in March. It takes place several years after the first post and is called <b><i>Which One of My Children Are You?</i></b><br />
<br />
She was just back one day when I got home from school. Banging in the front door, I drop my books and head toward the kitchen. It smells like somebody’s been baking and since there isn’t a fire truck out front, I guess it isn’t Granny.<br />
I’ve got something to brag about for a change because I got a Holy Card for knowing something that Mary Catherine Moynaghan didn’t. I slam around the corner fast as I dare because its burning a hole in my pocket and I don’t want to take the chance of losing it before anybody gets to see it and everybody starts thinking I’m telling whoppers again.<br />
At the kitchen sink, my mama stands with her back to me. Her hair’s a dark cloud against the white lace of the kitchen curtains. My mama’s home.<br />
I skid to a stop, then hurl myself at her crying, “Mama!” She sways forward, leans into the counter, and makes a little “oomph” sound like I’ve knocked all the air out of her. I’m holding on real tight around her waist and I can’t hardly breathe for crying’.<br />
She stiffens just for a second and it feels like she might run away so I hold on tighter and for the first time since she went away I’m crying, really crying, afraid I might make her go away again. I’m hiccupping and I need to blow my nose awful and if I keep this up, I’m going to need that inhaler I traded to Danny Boyle for a banana that wasn’t brown and mushy.<br />
Mama’s hands move to press my arms away and I’m so afraid I’ll lose her. She loosens my grip a little, turns in the circle of my arms, puts her hands on my head like a blessing and just lets me be.<br />
When she finally speaks, she sounds far away. “I’d forgotten how bright your hair is.” Her voice is very low and scratchier than I remember.<br />
She lets me cry and hold her, swaying just a little while I sob. She feels so warm and smells just like her closet. After a while, she slips to her knees, presses her forehead against mine and wipes gently at the tears and snot that cover my face.<br />
This close I can see everything – her skin softer and paler than any doll’s, her big eyes with impossibly long lashes and thumbprint dark shadows and little lines in the corners, and on her right temple, there’s a red mark, like a burn, the size of a quarter that fades into her hair.<br />
She pulls back a bit, stares at me real hard trying to tame my wild hair a little with her soft hand. Her other hand slips under my chin, tilts my face up a little, and then, her voice still far away, asks me, “Which one? Which one of my children are you?”<br />
Granny who’s been real still and quiet all this time explodes across the kitchen like a chicken out of a hen house. “Now Margaret, you know this girl. You’ve only got the one. Easy to tell her from the boys. This is DG.”<br />
Mama’s standing now, swaying a little, but me, I’m still as a statue and hoping I don’t throw up on Granny’s clean kitchen floor. It feels like somebody’s kicked me in the stomach. I can’t breathe. My mama doesn’t know me. My world turns upside down while Granny scoots me to the table, hands me milk and cookies that aren’t store bought or burnt, and flutters around the kitchen muttering.<br />
My mama, wearing a lavender sweater that matches the shadows under her eyes, stands swaying the in the middle of the kitchen.<br />
Grampa's there too, must have been there the whole time, and I realize that I must have sailed right by him in my excitement to share my good news. He walks toward my mama with his hand out while she says, “Papa,” in a sort of half question.<br />
“Pegeen,” he says, “Come with me. We’ll sit out on the gallery and I’ll tell you all about this girl. I know all her best secrets.” He winks at me and his voice wraps around her like a blanket. That’s his best voice, the one with music in it, the one he uses for stories, the one he usually saves for me. She takes his hand and they walk out of the kitchen toward the front of the house.<br />
My cookies are cold and my milk is warm but it doesn’t much matter because I couldn’t swallow them around this lump in my throat anyway.<br />
“Come dry dishes, you’ll feel better.” Granny commands and climbs up on the milk crate my daddy brought in so she can reach the sink. I don’t understand how drying dishes is going to help me feel better but I hope this is one of the times my grownups are right about something.<br />
“Got any questions you want to ask, girl?” as she hands me down a dish and a cloth to dry it with.<br />
I am the girl whose mother doesn’t know her name. I have no questions.<br />
Granny’s still looking at me, waiting for an answer.<br />
“No, ma’m.”<br />
Then she’s off her crate and bustling out of the kitchen. “Your mama, she’s just tired. She’ll be herself in a little while. She just needs to rest up, eat some good food, get back to her life. She’ll be fine. You’ll see, she’ll be just fine.”<br />
I sit down on the milk crate and tell the empty kitchen, “I got a Holy Card today. For being smart and for being quiet about it. You want to see?”TChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06460700547895207534noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5568811949214349273.post-16610993763579691062016-04-07T15:23:00.001-07:002016-04-08T15:24:48.652-07:00<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: blue; font-size: 18px;"><i>Here's the first excerpt. Please bear in mind that this is a first draft and still needs a lot of work. I'll post the second half of this piece soon.</i></span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: blue; font-size: 18px;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div>
<h4 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;"><i>Gone</i></span></span></h4>
<h4 style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 18pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I was five the first time my Mama went away.</span></h4>
</div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">Gramma stands in my Mama's place outside St. Cecelia's, squinting in the summer sunlight. She's got the baby, Samuel Taylor, on one hip and my other brother, Henry David, hangs off her other arm. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">"Where's my Mama?" I ask her. "Are we getting another baby? We really need a girl this time."</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">Gramma doesn't answer, just gets that look all my grown ups get sometimes, then turns and nods toward the black Desoto with the spaceship fins parked part way up on the curb. My Daddy says Grampa doesn't know how to stop unless he runs into something. You can hardly see Grampa's head over the steering wheel.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">I love Grampa's car. He calls it Liz or sometimes titsloren which makes my Mama punch him on the arm and say "not in front of her" which means me. It gleams because he washes it everyday and shoe polishes the white walls and inside it's red - my favorite color, even if it clashes with my hair. I need to ask Grampa what "horeouse" means because that what my Daddy says whenever he sees that car. I think maybe he'll let me drive so I run around to his window and lean in. He's already scooting back the seat just enough to squeeze me in.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">Gramma puts the baby in the port-a-crib in the backseat. Henry David crawls up in the back window to stretch out. I can't believe he ride like that even when it's this hot but you can't tell him anything. Gramma gets in and slams the door a little harder than you really have to to get it close. Grampa looks at her over the rims of his little round sunglasses but just says "Edith" in his don't voice. I push the D button and off we go.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">Grampa gives directions and works the pedals since I can't reach but I do all the really hard work like steering and staying inside the lines and ducking when the deputy rolls by in his patrol car. I tell Grampa when to slow down or go fast which I don't hardly ever and when he needs to start braking. He says, "Good girl!" when I get it right and "Are you sure?" when I don't and never, ever yells at me. Sweat rolls down the back of my legs from the bend in my knees but there's a breeze through the open windows so it's not really like an oven like Gramma says.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">We turn right at the last corner which means we're going to the Tastee-Freeze instead of straight home. Now I'm sure its a new baby and I can't wait to tell my Daddy when he gets home. We get out of the DeSoto to eat our ice cream because nobody ever eats anything in Grampa's car and he asks me about Vacation Bible School. Me and Grampa wonder if the Sisters don't get real hot in their get ups. I think they should at least have short sleeved ones for summer or maybe some other color instead of black and Grampa says I ought to tell Mother Superior that. Gramma spills her ice cream on the baby which makes him cry. She says, "Good heavens, Laurence!" and then it's time to go. I let Grampa drive by himself this time so I can sit in the back and hang my head out the window and catch the breeze.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">At Gramma's house, Grampa's already set up the wading pool and, after he scoops out the drowned ants, me and Henry David strip down to our underpants and splash all the water out quick as we can. Grampa chases us around the yard with the hose threatening all kinds of stuff we know he'll never do. After he refills the pools, Grampa pulls up his lawn chair, puts his feet in the pool, and they baby between his feet and we all mostly just loll around. We have to be careful not to get Samuel Taylor's face wet or he'll cry and that'll just bring Gramma down on us and then we'll all have to take a nap.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">Mostly, I'm hoping that Gramma brought my new dress to wear to the hospital and all the petticoats that go with it and that she remembered to bring ties for the boys even if she things it's silly to put ties on little boys. My Daddy's real particular about how we look when we go out with him and don't ever want to disappoint my Daddy.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">When I'm all pruned up, I ask Grampa, "When are we going?"</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">"Going where?" he replies in his not really paying attention voice, twisting Samuel Taylor's wet hair into curls.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">"To the hospital, Grampa!" Sometimes you have to remind him about stuff because his mind just wanders off. Grampa scoops up the baby and scoots real fast across the yard, hollering "Edith" in his come here right now voice. Gramma opens the screen door, wipes her hands on her apron, and says it's time for a nap and that she can't believe he let us run around out there half naked for the whole world to see.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 18px; line-height: 18pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Gramma drags me inside and stands me up on the toilet seat lid to brush and rebraid my hair while Grampa puts the boys down. She not real careful about the tangles like my Mama is. But Gramma's much better at keeping up with things than Grampa so I ask her, "When are we going to the hospital?"</span></div>
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<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">Gramma stops braiding for just a minute and it gets real quiet. "We're not going to any hospital."</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">"But who's going to pick out the new baby? If we let my Daddy do it, he'll just get us another boy."</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">"Good heavens! The things you say! The last thing we need is another baby! That's not where your father is." She's braiding my hair real tight now and jerking my head back a little while she does but she doesn't mean to. Gramma's just excitable.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">"Well where are they? We didn't get the maps out. We always get the maps out." They go away a lot, my Mamma and Daddy. We always get the map out so I know where they'll be and can worry about the right stuff like alligators if it's Florida and blizzards if it's Minnesota or earthquakes if it's California or seat cushions that float if it's Havana. And I still worry about that one all the time because not one of the chair cushions I put in the wading pool ever floated, not even for a minute.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">Gramma turns me around to face her and tucks some short stray hairs behind my ears where I cut bangs when I shouldn't have. I cut Henry David's hair too and nobody seems to care that somebody's hair has to get cut when you're playing Beauty Parlor and hair just grows right back anyway. Now even the fingernail scissors have to stay in the drawer unless I have a really good reason like paper dolls and a grownup who's looking right at me when they say it is okay.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div>
</div>
TChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06460700547895207534noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5568811949214349273.post-19889924878749118822016-04-07T15:01:00.001-07:002016-09-13T15:08:12.392-07:00Welcome to my blog. Here is where I'll be trying out my writing on a new audience - you. I hope you enjoy what I've written and that you'll let me know if you do. I am always interested in hearing from your constructive criticism. I look forward to growing the list of people who read this blog, so, please, invite anyone you think might be interested.<br />
<br />
<br />TChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06460700547895207534noreply@blogger.com0