Category Archives: Read’in and Writ’in

The other day, Mark had plans to go into Atlanta to take a woodworking class. It so happened that there was a featured author reading at the Margret Mitchell Literary Center whom I was very interested in as well, so we decided to make a day of it and go in together. We spent the afternoon visiting a small coffee roasting company and visiting one of their three shops, checking out antique stores and finally ending at Akeia where I purchased every sort of coffee and tea making device imaginable – for experimentation you see. I brought home a French press, a nifty glass teapot that has a built in infuser and a few steel German coffee and/or espresso pots – all for people who might want to order a personal pot of coffee to nurse while hanging around the fireplace.

The problem with this full day plan was that my reading was from 7 – 8, but Mark’s class was from 5 – 10pm clear across town. While he is familiar with Atlanta, I was bound to get lost.  It began as an overcast, mid-temperature day but by afternoon, it was freezing and windy, and of course, I was dressed in just a thin raincoat.  Ah well. I had Mark drop me off at 4:30 and I nestled into a booth at a coffee shop near the literary center (after inspecting their bakery case and menu and doing a bit of sleuthing, of course). I am reading a book about screenwriting now. I’ve very interested in learning more about that genre, so the time went quickly enough.

At 6:00, I scurried over to the Literary Center, the blasting wind almost carrying me past the front door. Burrrr….The moment I stepped inside I knew it was worth baring the cold, the wait, and the unknown. The cozy museum had been transformed. They set up a small stage and seating for a hundred or so literary enthusiasts and the room was awash with mood lighting, a bar serving wine (bingo) and a room filled with intelligent and enthusiastic readers. I felt instantly at home. Best of all was the music playing – wonderful blues filtered from speakers overhead. Now, if this wasn’t an event designed for me (mental, audio, visual, and orally pleasing) I don’t know what is. 

I bought a glass of wine, purchased the author’s book (I had already ordered it from Amazon, but it hadn’t arrived yet and I wasn’t planning to come and not have a book for reference or to have sighed, so I took out my crowbar and bought the dang thing again) and took a place front and center of the seating area. And I started reading.

The author, James McBride, would soon be discussing his novel, Song Yet Sung. It’s a novel dealing with the issues of Slaves and the Underground Railroad in 1850 (happens to be the subject and background of the book I am now working on, so of particular interest to me). I read the first three chapters while nursing my wine, thrilled because the book has the beautiful flow of a literary novel while also a wonderful plot. Something actually happens in this story and each page compels you to read on– which if you read many literary novels, is rather rare. (Sad, but true.)

At seven James McBride took the stage. He was a wonderfully unassuming man. As a young man, he went to Oberland for a degree in music and it just so happened we were listening to his CD on the speakers. (He made arrangements to give one to everyone in attendance as thanks for them baring the horrible wind to come to a reading. Yippee!)  He later got his Masters in journalism at Columbia and wrote for many prestigious journals and newspapers. Then, he wrote a memoir about being raised in a bi-racial family called The Color of Water, and this book received critical acclaim and was a best seller. His second book was about war and it didn’t sell so well, but they are making a movie of it and he just finished the script for Spike Lee. 

He said, “If I’d known so many people were going to read my first book, I would have written it better . . .”
Ha. He claimed he has grown into a much better writer now. I believe that. We all do as time marches on and experience pushes us forward.

His lecture was filled with easygoing jokes and down to earth honesty. He only spent about 10 minutes actually reading from the book (which was nice and brief, but I do love hearing an author’s work in his own voice) and then took questions.

Most people asked about his writing process or about how he gathered historical information to write such an authentic book. Most were fascinated with the subject of the book. I listened, enjoying his answers, but then had a question of my own.

“Why no quotation marks?” I asked. “Is it a style thing, or an allergy, or what?”
You see, he only uses a dash to denote a conversation. There are no quotation marks in the manuscript, and I found it peculiar.

He explained it was just an experiment – he felt dropping the quotation marks gave immediacy to the dialogue. I asked if he had to fight with his editor to keep his choice, but he said the first book was so successful they pretty much let him do what he wanted. He doubted he’d write a book without quotation marks again.

I always have mixed feelings about this kind of thing. To me it is sort of affected, as if someone is trying too hard to make an artistic statement and can’t come up with another way to accomplish uniqueness. I feel great writing doesn’t need to break rules, because it only makes it harder for the reader to follow. Communication is key, and to mess with uniform language always means giving up control of how the work is interpreted to some extent. But I also recognize that art has no rules, so I try not to pass judgment. Still, these kinds of experiments always seem self-indulgent to me.  But I must admit it didn’t take away from the book, because it took two chapters for me to even notice. But then, I couldn’t help but notice and notice and notice and notice…..

McBride was inspirational, informative, and fun to listen too. He made more than a few derogatory remarks about Margret Mitchell’s Gone with the Wind, because of her stereotypical portrayal of slaves. But it was done with good humor and respect too, and it was obvious he recognized that she was a product of her times.

A woman leaned over to me and whispered, “Do you think he is offended to have to read here?”
I said I very much doubted it. He could always refuse a gig if it truly went against his moral code. I think he just spoke of that book in a comparison of his own as a way of social commentary. It brought forth a true example of the great diversity of how people view slavery and how today, he can write such a more authentic book.

He is remarkably talented. Remarkably likeable, and I enjoyed every moment of the lecture.

Since I had hours to kill after the reading, I hung back at the end of the line to get the author’s John Hancock. This gave me time to enjoy some vibrant conversation with some of Atlanta’s elite. The people standing with me just bought a penthouse in a high rise next door (they came just to see what goes on in their neighborhood) and they talked about their personal jet…..
 
I was like, yea, that’s nice. I don’t have a jet, but I do have a donkey…. Believe it or not, they found that fascinating, and we ended up talking about why a person who loves literature can adore mud too,  and we talked peacocks and mountains, and books and what is good and bad about living in a big city (I’ve done that too)  ….. Well, it was a diverse conversation. Needless to say, it was fun.

When the line cleared and I got to meet with James McBride, I said, “I want to be the only person on earth who has quotation marks in her book, so can you put your name in quotes?”
He laughed and said “sure”.
He wrote, “To Ginny, Peace, love and truth . . . the only quote here in this book is “for you”.” And followed it with some scribble that I suppose is his name. Why is it men can’t write legibly?

It was a wonderful night. I came home and read the entire dang book the next day. It was moving beyond description. Anyone who loves good literature would appreciate it. Song Yet Sung. Buy it.

After the reading, I braced myself for the biting wind and walked a few blocks to a raunchy bar to hold up till Mark was free to pick me up. Funny, but I felt just as at home there in a smoky bar as at the refined reading. I was a bartender when I was young and living in New York, so I’m only too comfortable sliding into a worn wooden seat at a bar and having someone slide a glass of wine over the brass rail my direction. This bar was filled with pin-up posters of girls from the 1940’s. Inspirational! I was just sort of sorry Mark wasn’t there with me to discuss the reading and enjoy a drink. Always makes these things more poignant when you share them with another interested party.

Mark left his class early to pick me up – I told him it wasn’t necessary, but he didn’t like the idea of me traipsing around alone in Atlanta at night. Really, I was feeling fine and didn’t feel the least bit abandoned, but it was sweet he was concerned. He picked me up and we went back to his woodworking class. I read a bit in the car, then we had a hamburger and a glass of wine at a little Atlanta dive on that side of town, and drove the 1 ½ hour home –with plenty of conversation to share about what we experienced this night. That is one of the joys of going different directions when you’ve been married a long time. Makes for inspired conversation when you touch base.

Anyway, the reading inspired my own writing, which is important.
Speaking of which . . .
This week I started getting responses to my agent query letters. The first few were rejections. I figured as much, considering they were boomerang responses. Sigh.

But the third response was from a very prestigious agent and she made a request for the full manuscript with exclusive rights. I was delighted and yet, I felt I should wait the weekend and think about it. Don’t know why.

And the next day, I received another request for the full manuscript – from the agent of my dreams….. She happens to be the woman who discovered and represented Rosemary Rodgers (author of Sweet Savage Love, my favorite historical romance of all time) and several other very renowned and beloved historical romance writers. If you know my writing history and what motivated me to begin writing historicals– you would know just how significant this agency’s history was to me…. I sent the manuscript off within the hour. It doesn’t hurt that the agency is called Coffey (pronounced coffee). Ha. It has to be a sign, don’t you agree?

That night, I got another full manuscript request from another very prestigious firm. They said, “Your proposal sounds very intriguing and your writing sample is promising. Please send us more so we can consider representation…..”

Someone else might want me? I’ve been doing the happy dance ever since.

Mark started seeing these positive responses (four years ago my queries for the same book resulted in not a single offer – which goes to show I’ve improved either in the writing, the idea or the way I present it… perhaps the MFA opens doors because it is a statement of my commitement to writing). And he said, “Wow. You’re going to really sell this book. You’re going to do just what you set out to do…” ‘
Then he grinned and added, “Not that anyone ever doubted you would…”

That’s my guy.

I reminded him that getting an agent to read your work is a big step, but it is a long way from being represented and/or selling a book. I don’t want to get my hopes up….. I might still have lots of work ahead… and disappointment and …. Well, this is only a promising start.

But I know he is right. Because these agents will either represent me (required to get in the door of a publishing house now a days), or say no and with their rejection, they’ll probably make an explanation of why not. And that will give me direction so I can go back to the drawing board and make changes which will enhance my work. Every “no” is one more dart getting closer to the “yes” bulls eye, ya see.

As I printed my book to send out, I kept pulling out pages and reading. Often I thought, “Not bad . . not bad at all…” Then I thought, “I can do better….”
This is funny, because a teacher I had at Lesley often wrote  “You can do better” in the margins of my submitted work and it drove me crazy. Because I felt I was trying hard, and I wasn’t sure I could do better….. but of course, I’ve learned I can. And now, that is the overriding theme regarding how I feel about everything I write.
I can do better.
And I will.

I know that there is only so much fixing I can do on a book I wrote 4 years ago. My next book will be better – because I’m a far better writer now. And the book after that will be even better. I’m actually looking forward to starting something from scratch soon, knowing my newer material will be so much stronger than the old.

So it doesn’t matter if this book sells. Of course, I hope it will because I happen to adore the characters and the story and it represents time and energy and hope. But if it doesn’t, the next one will. Or the next.
The point is, I have put ego aside, I am open to learning and I understand growth takes time. And frankly, I’m not in a hurry or inclined to get frustrated because writing is hard and breaking into publishing harder. Growing and learning is a joy in itself, so all the effort is valuable. Publication is sort of secondary…

At least, that is how I feel today.

Anyway – my book is now in circulation. And if agent one says, ‘Not my thing” perhaps the next agent will adore it, or agent three, or one of the others I have yet to receive a response from but might show an interest…. The point is, I’ve dipped my toes in the water of publishing at long last. Feels refreshing and I seriously can’t wait to plunge in head first. Hope I don’t drown.

When I took my manuscript to the little country post office, I told my friend working there that after all those dozen of packages I picked up during my MFA, I was finally sending one out – I told her to send it with care and good vibes. It was my book finally leaving home.

She said, “About time”.
I agree.


P.S. Every morning, Prism walks out to the sunshine and opens his tail in a huge fan of irredessent color and circles. My girl peacock dances through the feathers, adoring him. I can’t believe something so beautiful is right in my back yard. And I’m guessing I’ll be discovering fertilized eggs pretty soon. Yippee.
I’ll take a picture when I can find my dang camera….. A peacock showing off is impressive and inspirational and a marvel of nature! Like all th emost splendid things in life – it was worth the frustration, the mistakes, the wait, and the painful learning curve….

This week, my writing classes were scheduled to begin at Appalachian Tech, but they were a no-go. I was disappointed, but not surprised. The school hasn’t had a continuing education class succeed at this satellite campus for some time (the actual campus is an hour’s drive away in Jasper, a bigger city. Mark is currently enrolled in a real estate class there).

Days after I agreed to teach writing classes, the school announced they were closing the Epworth facility. There was some negative commentary in the paper about the facility’s lack of benefit to the community, due to disinterest and low enrollment. Naturally, I assumed this meant my classes would be canceled, but the office explained they were going to continue running FLAG (the literacy program) and the adult continuing education division of the school in this location even while they were moving the degree programs elsewhere. My classes were listed on the website with all the other classes being offered in Jasper. I wrote a press release for the local paper and dropped some flyers around town in places like the library, but the school did nothing to help raise community awareness about the new classes in Epworth. I think they rely on a “if you list it on the internet, they will come,” philosophy , but history has proven this doesn’t work.

When I mention to people I’m teaching a class at Appalachian Tech, they never failed to say, “How can that be? Didn’t that place close?” Power of the press. Whatcha gonna do?

Though the school has tried to keep a presence in Epworth, I’d say they’ve done so only half-heartedly. For example, Mark enrolled in a class at this location last term and it too was canceled. His reaction reflected what commonly happens in cases such as this. He decided not to consider the facility for future classes. The average adult student works their schedule around an expected class, and often, forgo other options. There were five people in Mark’s class, but the school wouldn’t hold the session without seven registrations. Talk about setting yourself up for long term failure: the next time he was interested in adult education, he just waited for a class elsewhere, even though this meant driving an hour to another town. He no longer had confidence in our local facility, so he chose to avoid it altogether.

Dianne and Denver both tried to get information on programs they were interested in too, but no literature was available with answers to their questions about price, scheduling and so on, so they too found other places to pursue their goals.  Without consistency or implementing a full service attitude (regardless of class size) a school has no hope of ever building credibility or building up a student body of return customers (nor can they benefit from word of mouth recommendations from satisfied customers). A few mimeograph papers including class lists is dropped out front now and again, but it’s a listing of all the classes held at all campuses, so it isn’t user friendly. Considering the Epworth facility doesn’t have many walk-in’s, it’s an ineffective way to promote their offerings. Certainly not what I would consider savvy marketing.

A few months ago, I attended a meeting with one of the school’s directors to volunteer to help establish a continuing education program here. But in the end, I could see how fruitless the effort would be, because this is a case of absentee management. Anyone with an understanding of business or directorship basics knows how impossible it is to keep a program thriving when no one at the location has decision making power or marketing support to enhance community awareness.  Heck, if a school could run itself successfully, we’d have kept FLEX and managed it from Georgia. But we know quality and consistency in education requires close supervision and active management.

The women who work in the office in the Epworth campus, are lovely and committed to a common vision for the school. They have the best of intentions, but they’re not in a position to promote true change or to offer better services, so it’s only a matter of time until the potential of this project wanes. It’s a crime because our small town needs a comprehensive ongoing adult community education resource. We have tons of intelligent residents clamoring that there’s nothing to do in our area, and tons of people badly in need of small business management and/or guidance in other life-applicable subjects. We have this beautiful facility standing empty, but no authority or leadership to put a program together to meet the community’s needs.

As someone with a wealth of experience building programs, I can’t help but be frustrated by the inadequacy in the planning and implementation of programs at this location. Campaigning to breathe life into this facility seems futile – I don’t think a single person can do much and the hurdles seem to daunting. It was hard enough to dig in and do this kind of thing for my own school – I can’t imagine drumming up enough enthusiasm to do it all again for a non-profit that few people seem interested in. And while fundraising and gaining support for any worthy endeavor is a noble pursuit, in the end, I’m leery because this college isn’t an independent organization that can take the ball and run with it. It’s simply an offshoot of a bigger institution, one that will always make decisions at the main campus, where the board is influenced by a different cultural mindset. That’s probably the biggest obstacle of all. 

Anyway, I continue to meet with my reading student at this empty college campus two mornings a week and every time I walk through the quiet halls and pass the vacant front reception area with it’s empty brochure display racks, I sigh.

I say to Mark, “Can you imagine what we could do with this sort of facility to work with?”
And he chuckles and says, “Kill ourselves working until we crack again, I’d guess.”
He’s right, of course.

Now that I’m primed and ready to teach memoir writing (with class plans carefully organized) I’ll just have to seek another outlet. The funny thing is, I don’t care whether or not I am paid for teaching – I just want the experience of working with aspiring new writers. I miss interaction with students and I believe teaching non-accredited classes today will lay a foundation for teaching at higher levels in the future – a long term goal. I know hands on teaching is the best way to develop strong communication skills and effective teaching methods and exercises. No time like the present to tinker with something that’s engaging and inspirational on a personal level.

I do have intentions of offering writing seminars at our new business when it’s open (some taught by me and, hopefully, some taught by others) because I’m hoping to make the Bean Tree an artistic hub in this community. But for now, I am thinking of volunteering at community based organizations – places where seniors congregate or people who have gone through difficult times (drug rehabilitation etc…) and helping them discover inner truths and personal revelation through writing. These students may later be the people who come to open mic readings at the Bean Tree, or who participate in a community writer’s blog or some other outlet I might organize.  I still toy with the idea of an in-house publication for local writers, much like one just getting started in Sarasota just before I moved.

In a small town, organizing formal classes isn’t easy –especially when you take into account that 30% of our residents never graduated from high school and many can’t read at all. Promoting academic interests in a place where academic interests have not been readily embraced in the past, makes the concept more complicated than just organizing a writing class at a community center. But hey, it’s not like I don’t thrive best when challenged.  I’d be pretty jazzed if I could develop literary exposure for the abundant local artists here, in some grass roots project.  

Anyway, teaching writing here presents an interesting challenge, one I can’t stop mulling over.

Meanwhile, it’s time for an update on my personal writing…(if anyone is reading this boring entry to the end..)

I’m on the last 50 pages of my novel rewrite and I’ve begun to research methods for sending my revised book out to the world. The other day I read about a new publishing house (two years old) seeking manuscripts. They specialize in Historical romances and are seeking stories with strong plotlines and good research – stories that read more like the historicals that were popular twenty years ago. I read that listing and thought hummmm………….. sounds like they’d like my work.

So yesterday, on our way home from Atlanta (we have season tickets to the Broadway shows presented here, and we just saw The Drowsy Chaperone.  Cute. ) I stopped by Borders to see if they carried books from that press. (They didn’t). While there, I picked up the “hot sheet” of romance title picks, then grabbed a few books from the leading authors on the bestseller list.

I scanned the romance section, marveling at the wealth of titles released this season, especially pleased to see how many new historical novels were featured, because two years ago, historicals were considered dead in the romance genre and authors were told to turn their sights to other storylines (paranormal, chick lit and other styles). According to writing journals now, historical fiction is making a comeback. Whew.

The funny thing is, I haven’t read a romance novel in over four years and the last few I tried to read, I couldn’t get through. This is partially because the genre has changed and the popular historicals today have evolved into cheesy romance drivel rather than good historical novels with a fun romantic thread running through the story (which is what defined historical romance twenty years ago), but I must admit it’s partially because my personal expectations of literature have evolved too. Growth’s a bitch. 

My novel is definitely not like the currently popular historical romances. But it isn’t a serious work of historical fiction either. I’m sort of floating out there, a unique story that doesn’t lend itself to the expectations of the standard romance novel, yet it’s limited because it has too strong a romantic element to be a serious book. But thanks to two years in an MFA and time away from the manuscript (which allows me to see it now with new eyes so I can make positive change) I believe I’ve reworked my basic story into a lovely book that deserves to be published.  

Last night, I decided to read one of the New York Times bestseller historical romances that I picked up. Mark and I had just given ourselves a pump class and I knew I was going to be sore, so I was sitting in the tub thinking it would be fun to read something racy and frivolous for a change while I soak my old, tired bod.

I got to page ten, then tossed the book aside.

“PAGE TEN!” I yelled. “And already, the hero has met the heroine and you can tell it’s true love.”

“How can you tell?” Mark asked.

I leaned over the side of the tub and, in my best come hither voice, said, “The hair stood up on the back of his neck when he sensed his lady-love. They locked eyes with intensity, and the blood pulsed in their veins…..”

Mark tried to flash just such a gaze, but he looked more like a baby passing gas than a historical heartthrob.

“I have to admit, she’s good. This woman is a master at format. No wonder she’s one of the hottest selling historical romance writers in the biz.” 

“When do your lovers meet?” Mark asked. (It’s been a few years since he read my book, and though he’s asked to see the re-writes, I haven’t shared the vastly improved version. I’m no longer interested in sharing my work before it is really ready. I began as a writer who never let anyone read her work, then I cracked in a moment of weakness, and after that door was ajar, I found myself allowing anyone who asked a chance to read what I was working on. Big mistake. I’m back to keeping my projects under wraps now, because outside opinions influence and sway the process and you end up apologizing and making excuses for all your inadequacies, when actually, writing garbage early on is a part of developing a layered story. Sharing your work too early is like opening the oven door when making a soufflé. It leads to the entire thing falling flat, in my opinion.)

Where was I? Oh yeah.  “Page 76. I’m doomed,” I answered.

“I’ve told you before and I’ll say it again. You didn’t write a romance novel. Don’t compare your book to those.”

“But the sad truth is, I didn’t write a literary historical novel either. You can’t deny mine is still a love story, and that makes it a romance, right?”

For fun, we spent a few minutes trying to contrive a way to thrust my character’s together sooner in my story, just to get past the early rejection I’ll no doubt get from an editor or agent holding it up to current romance novel standards.

 Mark suggested I place my hero in the insane asylum featured in chapter one. Yeah, that’s romantic….I can make my hero into a cured schizophrenic. Sexy.

The more we tried to shift the plot, the more convinced I was that it simply couldn’t be done without destroying the strong motivation that pushes the characters forward. You simply need all the early adversity my characters encounter independently to make the circumstances that bring them together later on believeable

Thus the catch 22.

 I’m reading four historical romances this week – or at least, I’ll give it a college try. As I turn pages, I’m studying the writing, the plot, the format and the publisher. It’s not that I’m doing a study of this sort of writing to sell a romance novel – I don’t think I could make myself imitate this kind of writing even if I wanted to now – but I want to have a better understanding of the business of publishing so I can consider just where my novel belongs in the big scheme and how I should proceed from here.  I’m reading with new, educated eyes now, which makes the romance genre fascinating in an entirely different way. I should point out here that I am not being critical of the genre, even though it would be easy to tear this kind of writing down by literary standards. 

 The fact is, I think there’s a place for all kinds of writing in this world, and it takes skill to write a good piece of commercial fiction just as it takes skill to write a literary masterpiece. These different sorts of books require very different skills, but who’s to say one has more merit than another? Our audiences count, regardless of whether they show up for intellectual stimulus or entertainment. And there’s something to be said for the wider audience commercial fiction gains. I’m not talking about sales or income potential for a book. I’m talking about an author’s work serving as a vehicle to promote good writing. When few people are turning the pages of a book, no matter how brilliant, its impact is bound to be minimal. Perhaps a well written piece of commercial writing can be an important contribution to fiction. It’s all in how you look at it. Stephen King was ostracized by the literary world for years because he was considered a hack who pounded out commercial horror, and yet, he authored one of the most respected books on writing theory published in recent years. 

 It’s interesting – this having come full circle. I’ve paced around the writing beast, seeing it from a multitude of angles now. I have a wider perspective on what sells, what’s good, (two different things, unfortunately) and all the options in between. But despite what I’ve been taught by romance writers in seminars and lectures, and by literary authors in a master’s program, I’ve managed to maintain a respect for both sides of the spectrum.

Doesn’t help me define where I belong one iota. But it sure gives a girl a lot to think about and perhaps even a platform for teaching.  There is no right or wrong when it comes to self expression. Only what’s right or wrong for you. 
It’s all good!

Happy New Year.

Forgive me for taking so long to say that.

I haven’t been in a blogging mood. Usually this is because too much is going on in life to make writing a priority – or I’m awash in stress. Sometimes I’m just feeling blue. I often go through periods when I want to kill the blog and I avoid the site altogether, because one strike of the key can make the entire 2000 pages cease to exist. I think about doing this all the time –you can bet every period of silence signifies my wrestling with feelings that I’m no longer wanting an audience for my life. Heck, some of you may remember my first blog, which I eradicated one moody day but reactivated under a new name a few weeks later. In the end, deep down, I returned because I felt it was important to keep a fragile thread connecting me with friends. But some days, I wonder . . . 
  
I’ve been thinking about my blog and its role in my life a great deal lately.
 
  The fact is, a blog is not a forum of honest communication. It offers a Swiss cheese version of life, at best. You can’t share your true feelings or an accurate picture of life in a blog anymore than you could have a heart to heart with a friend if you knew your words were blaring over the loud speaker at Disneyland. You can’t write anything real because everything real involves the people in your life, and they’re no doubt reading the blog. Be it a spouse, a neighbor, a daughter’s boyfriend, a work employee or your best friend, you run the risk of riling someone by airing anything that isn’t generic and impersonal. Which narrows conversation mightily.
   
  Real life is filled with rife. Your spouse is a prick, your neighbor insane, your kids annoy you, your boss’ an ass, and you’re always wrestling with feelings of inadequacy,  boredom and frustration. You’re horny, or feeling ugly, or mad as spit. How nice to be able to pour it all out on the pages of a blog, but how very unproductive at the same time. But does anyone really believe I write about spinning angora wool because that’s the focus of my new, unencumbered existence? 
  
  People think my life is charmed. This always makes me laugh. My blog is charmed, big difference. My life is as full of shit as ever, and I’m not talking about mucking horse stalls.  But a blog is a form of entertainment, and entertainment venues don’t attract attention if they’re focused on the zits of life – unless you’re trying to create a sad sack persona to amuse people or your blog is designed to attack a specific issue. I could have targeted this blog to specific issues, true – but creating a blog as a soapbox or advertisement was never my intention.
   
Anyway, who has time to report and reflect upon all areas of life? No one living fully, I can promise you. A blog is a very frustrating method of communication because it feels  superficial and trite as you scratch the surface of life and slant things to be merry. Does anyone really think the bulk of my days are spent playing with llamas and a donkey, or that spending two years teaching one person to read is a constant inspiration? Get real. Some days I want to take the animals to the meat factory because I’m dead sick of caring for them and I wonder what the hell I was thinking when I bought them. Some days I want to slam a third grade reader in front of my student and say, “What the hell is wrong with you that you can’t remember the “k” is silent in knife. Duh!” And I catalogue all the things I could do with my time that would serve my own interests instead acting like some bleeding heart.  You see, I’m no saint and  despite my positive outlook in the blogsphere, I get downright ornery about life sometimes. But sending positive messages out to friends is a way of telling them “Don’t worry, we’re OK”, and it’s a way to encourage them to be happy too.
  
   I’ve never been a very open or “needy” person regarding friends – some consider me downright antisocial. I don’t talk on the phone, don’t write letters. I simply don’t keep up. I sort of take it for granted my friends will be there if I ever need them, and honestly, I try not to need them. Mark is responsible for all the family interaction with friends. Without him, I’d be old, forgotten history in everyone’s eyes. So, I certainly don’t need a blog as some kind of surrogate buddy. But does help me keep up with friendships in the most casual way. For someone who doesn’t connect easy, this works.   
  
       Nevertheless, one of these days my friends may tune in to this e-address and simply come up with a blip on the screen. I’m getting closer to ending it all the time.  But not today.  Because, in the end, I believe a fragile thread of connection is better than nothing. And I don’t succumb to moods or emotional knee jerk reactions to my doubts and frustrations like I used to. I’m here for a reason.
 
     Mark says, “Who are you blogging for, the people we willingly left behind?” Yes. And no. I don’t believe severing all past connections to my past is necessary to be fully engaged in my current life . True, there are people from my work past who tune into this blog with the same curiosity as people who slow down to stare at a car crash hoping to catch sight of something disturbing. I really rather not be on display for these folks. At the same time,  we’re all nothing but the sum of our experiences, both good and bad. I tend to look backward at what I was before with a certain amount of reverence. I don’t feel staying connected to the past makes me embrace the future with any less conviction.     
  
I actually believe people should not be so quick to put their past behind them, because our history serves to widen our perspective on the world. Nothing is black and white, so while my husband complains that I’m always playing devils advocate when I champion someone who has done something seemingly wrong, the truth is, I’ve learned that there are two sides to every issue. And believe you me, there are always pieces of the puzzle missing, no matter how convinced you are that you understand what’s going on. Whenever we pass judgment, we are always doing so with limited information. Fact. In the end, wrong and right are not opposites, but a murky blend of shifting perspectives that depend on where you’re sitting and what information you’re privy to in any given moment.  Life is complex, like it or not – and the more you experience the intensity of living,  human flaws notwithstanding, the clearer and more precious life becomes.    

So, as the new year begins and I clean house in my mind, I ask myself if I should continue blogging.  Why, really, am I here?

That’s easy. For the same reason I first began.

I blog to make sense of the world. To make it possible for a friend to check in now and again and save me the trouble of explaining it all over the phone more than once. To remind people that I’m still alive and kicking, still moving forward, for better or for worse. To allow friends to laugh at my foibles, and to remind them not to fear change and to celebrate the little blessings in their world. You see, in the end, a blog serves as cliff notes to a person’s life. I occasionally look back at my entries marveling at the changes I see – I can actually pinpoint those events that triggered the next, and I see things that resonate within me long after the moment has passed. My blog isn’t a case of show and tell. It’s discovery, and often I’m learning about myself at the same time my readers are.

Many entries are mindless drivel, true- but some touch upon subjects that actually qualify as thought provoking. And since I’m not trying to impress anyone and no one really has to show up, what difference does it make what I write about? You may think a blog is indulgent – who the hell really cares what one individual has for lunch or what they think about life? In a world drowning in information overload, perhaps adding to the noise is not only unfair, but abusive. But that assumes the writer is laying words down for attention or that she or he has expectations from the audience.
  
  What if it’s all simpler than that? What if it’s just about keeping that fragile thread, for no other reason than instinct tells you to keep you voice active, even if it’s only whisper in the background of everyone’s busy existence? The worst that can happen is you spend a lot of hours pounding the keyboard and no one at all is on the other end, reading. But in the end, that’s OK too, because it’s the act of doing that counts. We are each responsible for what we give, not how (or if) our offering is warmly received. All it takes is one person reading to make it all worthwhile. But if that one person doesn’t show up, I think the act of putting yourself out there still counts. Intention is everything.

    I have good friends from my past that I lost track of long ago. I have no clue of where they are living, or with whom. I don’t know if they’re alive or dead. They might be battling cancer, or have adopted a child from Guam or maybe they took up the bagpipes. And I wonder about them all the time. (Still looking for you, Pam Spence) Sometimes, it’s comforting to know the basics about people you’ve cared about. And when old friends show up here, I know I’m not alone in that kind of curiosity. It always amazes me, when a friend I haven’t spoken to in years suddenly writes. They say they googled me and found my blog. Now, I’ve never googled anyone in my life – I simply don’t think to do that. But obviously, we all wonder occasional about people who have influenced our lives one way or another. And sometimes a spot check is nice. It can lead to a short hello before we fade away into our own worlds again. But to me, that hello is precious.

I’ve had periods when 400 people were reading this blog regularly – but mostly because they were waiting for the other shoe to drop in the FLEX trauma. As the issue resolved, most of them faded away, or at least I’m guessing they’re gone. I have friends who say, “Gee, I haven’t read your blog in weeks, what’s up?” and I know their interest in our world is fleeting at best. But they stop by once in a while, and that’s nice. I have parents, siblings, cousins and other close acquaintances who don’t bother to read it at all because frankly, it’s boring to them. I know my husband reads the blog, not because he is engaged by my mind or needs to read a reenactment of our daily life. He feels he has to police any information I unleash. More than once I’ve removed a post at his request, and you can bet he offers me ongoing critique and mild censorship about my posts. I’m respectful enough to avoid any subject he asks me to avoid. Blogging can be mighty intrusive when you’re the subject being meandered – and that brings up all kinds of respect and confidentiality issues too. This all builds up to make you feel self conscious and as if your wings have been clipped. But that is a part of the challenge, and challenge isn’t a bad thing. And if you ever become a student of writing, you learn that self-censure is our killer. It makes it impossible to reach that authentic, poignant level that makes your work sing. . . never mind, that is another subject. (By the way, I taught a seminar on blogging pro’s and con’s so this issue is one I’ve pondered long and wide.)    
  
   There are the people who come up to me (like the director of the literacy program at the college) and say, “Hey, I found your blog last night. Interesting.” This always unnerves me, because when I’m blogging, I imagine I’m talking to a casual friend from far away, not people I interact with daily or people in current professional areas of my life. I wonder what provoked them to look me up in the first place. Hummm……..  But things like that serve to remind me that words spoken aloud don’t really fade into oblivion, even if it feels like they do. They hang in the cyber air waiting to be picked up by anyone with an ear for it. Kind of like sending a message into space on the off chance a new life form will respond.  Can’t act surprised when they do.

My life is always evolving. Three New Year’s years ago, Mark and I hadn’t even thought of selling FLEX. Two New Year’s ago, it was gone and we were suddenly living in a dilapidated cabin without a roof, shivering because there was snow on the toilet seat. Last New Years we had just moved into our dream house, but that very month we learned that our former business was crashing and everything we had carefully planned was suddenly at risk. This New Years, we sat together forming a plan for selling this house because, as things worked out, (considering with the huge losses we incurred by the mismanagement of our business by the new owners, legal fees and having to support empty buildings for months on end after they crashed – still doing that, in fact) we can’t afford this lifestyle any longer. So, next New Year we’ll be living someplace else. Here’s a kicker – our  house will be featured in Country Log Homes and people will say, “what an amazing house” but it won’t be our amazing house. Ah well.
  
  We’ll have a new career hopefully, a new business, and all the headaches and struggles that kind of thing involves, and who’s to say if I’ll have a garden or animals or even if we’ll be in Georgia. We don’t have as much invested in this life as we had in the last, and we’ve discussed packing up and starting over someplace altogether differently, because life is trial and error, and we’re not convinced this existence is a perfect fit. We’ve learned a great deal from our adventures and the experience has been marvelous, but we have reservations about planting roots and getting entangled in another complicated life for personal reasons. We’ve been deeply disappointed that things did not work out as planned, because frankly, we’ve suffered and made sacrifices to get here. But hey, life is like that. And you can bet the adversity and disappointment has helped us to grow and see the world with a wider perspective too, so perhaps it was meant to be. 
      
  Then, there’s the fact that our homesteading choices are only one small facet of life. Throw into the mix our personal interests, family shifts, writing aspirations, health issues etc.. etc… and you can see that deleting the blog would find friends totally lost on the whereabouts of the Hendry’s pretty fast. Not that our life is so very interesting or that people need to know details. But I do think it’s nice they can tune in for a general clue of what we’re doing and why. And people have been impressed with our luck so far, so to leave them now would give them a false impression of what our life ended up to be. Our luck may be turning south, so we are going to get creative and try to turn adversity into advantages – hey that’s good fodder for blogging. If anything seems too good to be true, it probably is. But life is a roller coaster and there’s good embedded in all the bad. It’s just a matter to pausing to reflect upon the lessons gained along the way. Blogging forces reflection, I think. 

I guess to me, a blog feels like home base, a safe place to meet and converse without things getting threatening or uncomfortably personal. It’s a place to gather together to laugh or cry, to get an overview about interesting developments or just to touch base. It allows friends to visit with the option to come and go at their leisure, without pressure to show up regularly or worrying they are interfering with the steady unfolding of our days. A blog is really a one way mirror. From the author’s side, you only see a familiar reflection of yourself, but friends can show up and, even though they can’t speak to you or touch you, they can watch from behind this comfortable veil. They can turn away if and when they want or they can pull up a chair, pour a glass of wine and enjoy the view.  
   
  I wish everyone I knew had a blog just so I could tune in when and if I felt like it. It’s a very non-committal way to keep abreast of friends. Well, that’s not true. It requires a great deal of commitment – but only from the writer. Several former dance students and writing friends have begun blogs and I loved checking on them, but after a few months, they fizzled out. Always disappoints me a bit, but I understand. The issues connected to blogging are complex, and in the end it’s easy to think, “what’s the point?”  We are a results oriented society and we look for a return on every investment of time or energy. A blog really doesn’t have a tangible payback, and often feels like a frustrating, self serving, waste of time. Meanwhile, people assume anyone putting that kind of time into a ongoing project must have an alternate motive, and you find your explaining yourself all the time too. Some things defy explanation. It’s as easy as that.

As far as I’m concerned, a blog isn’t about the readers at all, but about the writer. Consider it a strange method of  talking to yourself. If others overhear the conversation and find it interesting, good. If they want to make their presence known, they can make a comment, and that’s nice too.
    
  If you think a good day is a day without Ginny, then don’t tune in. But if a dose of Ginny makes you grin, swing by. It doesn’t have to be more complicated than that.   
   
  If I was to create a case against blogging, the only thing I can truly say as a downside is that it does eat up writing time that might be more productively spent. I could have pounded out four books with the word count in this blog. But the question is, would I? Or would that time have been spent watching TV or reading magazines? And would my real writing projects be less insightful if I alleviated the ongoing practice of putting my thoughts on paper in this casual friend-to- friend way? A person can always write privately, diaries are timeless, but self discipline can wane when you know the only person you’re letting down by not showing up is yourself. I think, for me, my blog is connected to my muse. I simply can’t ever willingly shut that off.
 
   A blog even serves to keep you active. I often  find myself thinking I’ll forego an experience because it’s too much trouble, then thinking, “What the hell, it will give me something fun to blog about.” You see, there’s something to be said about having an audience to your life, even if it is only an imagined audience. It’s like standing at the edge of a lake and prudishly thinking you rather not get wet, but when it occurs to you your friends are privy to your every growing fuddy duddy-ness, you decide to dive in just to prove you will. In other words, blogging  keeps you from falling asleep at the wheel of living. For all that it’s limiting in some ways, it’s expansive in others.

I blog, just as I cook or make wine or work out or read racy novels, or do community service, or raise my own eggs or flirt with old men. It’s just something I do because it suits my personality. I want to nurture the fragile thread that links me with others, a thread with no strings, so to speak. Without it, I’d feel more alone, I should think.

I guess I blog to say I’m still here. And that doesn’t hinge on whether or not anyone else is. . . .   Like everything in life, it’s a choice.

The greatest thing about education is that it makes you begin to see the world differently. ( We visited the Boston Museum of Science – here I was trying to figure out perspective in an exhibit.)


I’m home and feeling as if I have had a shot of B-12 or something, because I am full of energy and have this profound sense of relief that my two year stint in the academic world is over.
Would I do it again? Yes.
Am I glad I don’t have too? Double yes.

I don’t know that I am cut out for the academic world, but I’d be lying if I said that pursuing a formal education hasn’t had a profound effect on me. Stretching my mind and being forced to consider things I would not necessarily consider on my own makes me see the world differently. It makes me see ME differently. Getting a masters makes me feel pride, but really, the emotion connected is more profound.

Perhaps I’m someone who values the input of philosophical thought and classic theory, as it is presented by professors who dig deep to unveil all the nuisances of intellectual debate. It certainly provides me opportunity to challenge what I believe on instinct. A broader view allows me to come to my own conclusions about what I truly think, believe, and care about in art, the world, and humanity. Also, a comprehensive view gives me the confidence to stand by my personal likes and dislikes, because when you have that underlying concern that you just are not sophisticated enough, or educated enough, or exposed to enough great theory, you start questioning your instincts, wondering if you are indeed missing some piece of the puzzle that misleads you so you read the world wrong. You worry that you just are not savvy enough to “get it” when you disagree with a more educated writer’s or reader’s view. (That makes me sound like an intellectual wimp, but it is true that I sometimes question my position when faced with someone with far more experience and/or education. I know I don’t agree with them, but it is hard to pinpoint why.)  Getting a formal education for me is like gaining permission to have my own literary and world convictions. No one can dismiss me with a shrug and say, “Well, that is because you are just a common hack…” or some other negation of my contradictory view, simply because I have no concrete information to back up what I feel. 

In the case of literature, I now have very strong feelings about what defines a “literary” novel and what exemplifies art. It is not unlike the conclusions I came to regarding dance and how I balanced a respect for classical work with embracing commercial venues. I think  “commercial art” is actually a product of our society and reflective of real life issues (art reflects life, and we live in a world where cultural influences alter what we produce and how we express ourselves (this was subject of my blog seminar). In a nutshell, it’s true that great art can not usually be manifested by a formula, quick methods or by catering to mass taste in lieu of unique expression, but it isn’t as simple as determining that all commercial art is unworthy either. At least for me, a literary education was key to seeing the whole picture and putting all the pieces in perspective.

As such, this dumb MFA means more to me than I could describe. I’ve thought a lot about why I’ve had such a strong reaction to what is really “no big deal”- and I think it has something to do with the fact that I pursued a masters in a subject I deeply love. The first round of college at age 35 was for a business degree- but that was all about practicality and gaining some basic understanding of commerce and business. I went to school out of necessity (I was not surviving as a business owner with the mindset of an artist and something HAD to change or I would have had to leave dance altogether) My bachelor’s degree was not about following my heart – albeit it was life altering. This first foray into academia widened my world view, and changed my perceptions regarding  art and its relationship to business in a serious way.

There is also the fact that I feel such personal joy over accomplishing this particular degree. When I was small, I proclaimed that I wanted to be a dancer and a writer. I did the dance thing and it brought me great happiness. Nevertheless, there is something very primal within me that takes pride in the fact that I didn’t let one dream go in lieu of another and that, even at my ripe middle-age, I am willing to start at the beginning to accomplish something I’ve wanted to do since I was a child.  Being a “trained” writer means a great deal to me, because a million years ago, when I graduated from high school, I looked into colleges. I was looking at schools for writing, but chose to go to New York to dance instead. This second chapter of my life is a bit like being able to take the “other road” to see where it leads. How many of us get to take both roads in a fork in one lifetime – without having to backup to start over? I no longer feel that by making the choice to dance I was sentenced to a lifetime as an uneducated person or that I had to forgo writing all together and play the “Gee, I could have been . . ” game.

I approached life events in a different order. In the end, I followed my heart and lived a life that was authentically “me” and what do you know, I ended up well rounded and complete despite it all. (Which explains why I didn’t freak out when my daughter came home after her Sophomore year of college and told me she wanted to quit. I believe that we each know what we need and when, and I trust her instincts. I said, “I hope you go back someday,  because I’ve come to believe that education plays a powerful role in our personal development.” She said, “Of  course I will, but for now, I just don’t have an interest, and I am wasting my time in school, going through the motions just because everyone else my age from my socio-economic background is. I don’t feel compelled to do something else, so I’m taking classes. But I just want to figure out what I really want and pursue it, and i know that whatever that is, isn’t at school.” 
How can you fight that logic? I trust she is right, and honestly, I was the same at her age. (She is going to a professional jewelery artesian school in September, by the way, to learn to work with silver. How can I be disappointed? Imagine the great, unique Christmas gifts I’ll be getting the rest of my life!)  

Another element that makes my degree special hinges on something more personal – wrapped up in the basic human longing to secure a feeling of self worth. Although it shouldn’t be so, I think I need validation from respectable sources to convince me I am not stupid. This is something that drives Mark crazy, because he considers me anything but stupid and he feels that in my 48 years on earth, I’ve received enough proof of my mental aptitude, that is far past time I accept the reality that I’m smart and move on. But I battle with this question about whether or not I am intellectually inferior all the time. 

I’ve guess I’ve been made to feel  “intellectually insignificant” for years by people who probably have no clue they were doing it. It is one of those special family gifts we all seem to get saddled with – don’t we all have some war wounds from growing up? Well, for me this is it. Feeling dumb is the fall out from hundreds of little comments made all the time – like my Dad, who didn’t want me to move to New York to dance telling me that if I didn’t go to college I’d always be dumb. Or when I told him I wanted to go at 35, he said, “It’s too late. You missed your chance. You should have gone at 18, but it is a waste of time now. ” I’m sure he didn’t mean these things, and it was more about trying to influence me with the devil’s advocate technique, but they were said, and comments like this stick, undermining your confidence.

When my Dad disagrees on a business decision, he throws up his hands and says, “That proves you don’t know what the hell you are talking about. You certainly wasted money on that business degree because you obviously didn’t learn a damn thing .” What can you say to that? Yep. I’m just a dancer – to stupid to understand anything as complex as basic economics…. even though I graduated with honors. But heck, that was just a piece of paper. In real life, I’m stupid. Thanks for pointing that out….. again.

Of course, I could just blow a big raspberry in his face and tell him to go suck a lemon. I’m mature enough to know I have every right to my own opinion, and it may well be that I know more than he does in a given situation, but we have different perspectives due to a different inherent hierarchy of values. For example, in the dance business, I was always weighing choices with a sense of how important it was to keep artistic integrity intact, while my father was weighing choices according to business formulas.  The things I cared deeply about could not be measured in monetary ways, and as such, my convictions seemed indulgent and/or stupid to him.  But these choices made perfect sense to me in light of what I considered valuable and significant as an artist. There is no right or wrong in business or life. There is only right or wrong for each person. And success can not be measured entirely by what is printed a the balance sheet.

I know those kinds of comments were (are) really just angry squawlering; however, they stick with a child, and enough unkind comments make a person question their worth. It is a matter of people planting the seed of doubt, I guess. Anyway, even if it isn’t malicious or intentional, telling someone they are stupid is an unkind way to make a point. And while I am mature enough to know these comments are not indicative of my self worth, still, it leaves a negative resonance that lingers and infiltrates your confidence. Not to mention that it pisses you off.

There is another game my family plays with me. Lots of fun – (for them – certainly not for me). When I was young and absolutely obsessed by dance, they liked to point out how imbalanced I was in regards to my interests. We would be having a nice time, talking and laughing, and suddenly, my Dad would turn to me and say, “Who is the vice president of the united states?” Considering my mind was not on politics at the moment, and I was always out of tune with current events, and I have a seriously weak memory, I wouldn’t have the answer (no comments from the peanut gallery please.) This would greatly amuse the family and they would start shooting questions at me to point out how “uninformed” I was.  I’d be grilled on past presidents, the dates of wars or significant world events, and asked to define the major accomplishments of famous individuals. The questions were usually about politics and sports, the two subjects I did not have a passing interest in and as result, in most cases, I would not have the answers. I’d sit there, trapped, looking stupid, as question after question was aimed at me to point out just how much I didn’t know. 

Now, you can say that as a citizen I was in the wrong, and I should have cared more about our government. I agree. Perhaps I should have known more, but heck, I was working with the education my family provided me with. I got good grades in school. So if I didn’t know the basics, am I really to blame, or should we have had an intellectual debate on our educational system? And in most cases, it was information I did know at one time, but had slipped away.

I think what my family was trying to point out was that I should make more of an effort to be self educated – maybe they thought embarrassing me was a way to force me to change and start paying attention to current events, read some history and care about something other than art so I “fit in” as the average American with a list of pertinent facts stuffed into my head for a moment just like this. But there are kinder ways of expressing your concern over a family member’s narrow interests and instead, I just always felt as if they considered me stupid and I resented that they found it very amusing to point it out. Besides which, like I said, t was always information I did know, but somehow it slipped from my mind. I have a wicked bad memory. Remarkably so. It took me years to understand that problem.

Last month, my family was visiting. We were all gathering to celebrate my nephew’s graduation from college. Unlike my graduation (where I didn’t even get a card or phone call of congratulations from a single family member) I made the mistake of exclaiming my excitement and pride that I was graduating with a masters!  I can’t hide how very delighted I am over this milestone in my life, nor did I think I should have too, so I made a joke about my being smart. Big mistake. I should have known better.  My sister looked right at me and said, ” A degree doesn’t mean you are smart. Who is the secretary of state?” 

I didn’t know (of course – my lack of interest in politics has not changed . .. When will I learn to study up before spending any time with my family since it is inevitable they will test me with politics and sports questions? If I was really smart, I’d print out a cheat sheet before every family gathering so I pass muster.)

I looked at my sister, challenging me, knowing she was compelled to take me down a peg because I dared claim I was intelligent. She wanted to make it very clear that a dumb piece of paper that says I have a master’s degree really means nothing and I am a fool to think differently.

But, all I could think was, “This is learned behavior.”
She learned this from my dad, knows how these questions disable me and as such, she can’t resist joining in the game.  I wondered why she perpetuates the behavior, considering she has her own painful issues with the family dynamics. Then, I wondered what this comment does for her. Does pointing out that I don’t know something, that is to her is basic knowledge, make her feel smarter by comparison, or does she think it’s vitally important that I know just how much I don’t know? Does she think she is doing me a favor by pointing out my inadequacies? Does it amuse her really to test the extent of my accumulated facts? It is interesting, in a sad sort of way. Because what if they were right and I really was stupid as a box of rocks? Would pointing it out be of service to me somehow? Seems to me that love and family commitment should rally members to be more supportive and/or protective of the individuals in the clan.  If nothing else, shouldn’t we try to build up the self esteem of those we love rather than constantly break it down? And does anyone question why I don’t have the answers, considering I have gone to college, I read incessantly, I am active in the world, etc….  Perhaps something other than my being a mental mushroom is at hand?

I thought of the zillion of questions I could shoot at her about art and literature and other things that are of interest to me and that she probably has no clue about. She is a well read individual, and very intelligent, but that does not mean she knows everything. And frankly, surface knowledge doesn’t impress me nearly as much as original thought – and I rarely hear much of that from her. It appears as if she believes what she is told and has read, she is a virtual dictionary of facts, but I don’t often hear her discuss the underlying issues of social conflict or hear her discuss unpopular world views. Not that she doesn’t have depth or a deeper understanding of the world- only that she doesn’t share such thinking with me and she seems quick to pass judgment on others.  So how would I know there is more to her intellect than a surface recitation of facts? 

I considered how my family is convinced I don’t know what I am talking about when I take a stand that is very different than theirs regarding business or life decisions. I think the way I do, not because I am stupid or uninformed, but because I have a different set of values and I am motivated by different things, pulled towards different elements of a subject – in most cases I am intrigued by the emotional or artistic factors of an issue  while they are more interested in obvious measurable factors such as economics or more widely accepted social attitudes. I don’t see anything wrong with their views or mine. Individualism is what makes the world an interesting place, at least to me. But man oh man, how my looking at the world differently is viewed as my being “stupid” to them.

In this case, I excused myself to go to the kitchen (always finding solace in cooking). But as I left, Mark caught my eyes, and we exchanged a look that told of just how much he understood how frustrated and sad that comment made me. The thing is, I don’t feel stupid anymore. I know enough about life to feel very knowledgeable and I have a good understanding of what makes the world tick. I also feel I contribute to the world, to conversations, to many things. But it makes me sad to think people I love want me to feel inadequate. Or maybe they really believe I am stupid and they want to make sure I know it. That is even sadder still.

Ah well, the dynamics of family is very complicated, and I’d need to get a PhD in psychology to get even an inkling of what and why we communicate as we do in such unloving ways. But that would fall in a priority line after I go get a masters in political science so I can one-up the relatives at Thanksgiving when they want to hit me with the current event test. since I don’t’ see that one happening, well….. why wrestle with the subtleties of technique regarding how to hurt your loved ones?   It would be easier to just start reading the paper and trying to remember what the hell is inside whenever they visit.

Anyway, I thought about these things a lot as I listened to our keynote speaker and I walked up to get that degree. It was a very special moment for me, definitely up there with “most important life moments” along with getting married and the birth of my children. This was simply the biggest thing I’ve ever done. Because getting my MFA wasn’t about ego (hell no, because it bashed my ego to kingdom come), or work, or making a living, or setting myself up for monetary returns, or meeting other’s expectations or doing something practical. It was a hundred percent about following my heart, facing my deepest fears, and exploring what I love with candor and no small amount of wonder.

I know that getting a degree does not make a person smart. I know that there is a difference between logic and emotion and book smarts and street smarts and a formal education and life experience. I like to think I have a smattering of each of these life lessons and combined, they make me a fairly well rounded person. I accept that there is always room for growth, and that I have much to learn still. Nevertheless, I  feel as if I am constantly gaining a deeper perspective on the world, so, I am pleased with my ongoing life education, even if it isn’t complete and even if I can’t answer some pretty simple questions about our working government that the average American probably can.

I do read the paper, by the way. I am greatly moved by issues and events, but for the life of me, I don’t remember details, and ten minutes after reading an article about major world events, I’ve forgotten the name of every politician at the party. Mark says it is because of the way my brain is wired. He explains that this is why I can’t spell. He has watched me closely for many years and has come to the conclusion that it isn’t that I have a bad memory, but that I apparently “skip” information that I do not consider prevalent in the moment. My mind latches on to things beneath the surface and I don’t much care for the obvious. For example, I am very interested in what a word means and how it affects a sentence, but how it is spelled is not relevant in the bigger scheme, so I don’t bother to anchor it into my mind. I can spell it for a while, then I conveniently forget. And frankly, I don’t care about spelling it correctly. 

I also tend to remember things that have an emotional impact on me. I’ll remember what I feel about an issue strongly and often these moments will have a huge impact on me, but I’ll forget the particulars about other, more obvious facts.  I can remember every detail about experiences in my life that were important emotionally, (both negative and positive) yet don’t ask me to remember the phone number I had for eighteen years in Florida. I forgot it ten minutes after I moved, because it wasn’t important anymore. I have a selective memory in that way. It sucks, but that is how my mind works. I can tell you what the doctor’s glasses looked like when he was delivering my baby, but don’t ask me what hospital we were in.

It is as if I don’t have room for all that information in my little brain computer, so I delete as I go to make room for more files. I read a hundred books in the last year, but in every case, when talking about them, I can’t pull the author’s name up from my memory banks. It doesn’t mean I didn’t digest these books or understand them, or that I wasn’t impacted by them. I just know I can look up the author when and if I ever need too, and so I don’t keep that kind of data at the forefront of my mind.

Nevertheless, I accept that I don’t know enough about current events and I have some mighty disturbing holes in my basic awareness of the world. Even things I’ve known well and fully, I let slip away – like who is serving as the secretary of state this term.  But I rather approach life from the standpoint that we are all incomplete and must always keep learning, rather than walk around feeling like I know it all, and pointing out to others that they don’t. And I certainly don’t presume to think that what I know is more important or worthy then the things others know. There are things I wish I could forget, and even useless information I don’t need that I’ll never be able to unload – tons of it dance oriented. Anyway, I’ve learned that the people who think they know everything are really the ones that are quite clueless anyway.  

The point is, I am thrilled to have graduated. I am a woman of arts and letters now. 

I will share a few pictures – they don’t look like much, but in every one I am smiling. I think that says it all.

Neva has the degree in hand, I have flowers, and Kent has the wine. It was all we needed to celebrate at the graduation dinner hosted after the ceremony.



Mark says I read too fast at the reading. Well, what do you expect. I was nervous. He said, “I don’t get it. You’ve been on stage a million times, so why on earth be nervous now? I wanted to go up there and just slap you and say, stop it.” Well, thank you for your empathy, dear. What can I say… when I dance I am confident. Reading my thesis in front of an audience made me feel exposed. Like dancing naked only after gaining a hundred pounds…   



This is one of my teacher’s, AJ Verdale. She said some very kind things to me regarding my writing the next morning. Heartfelt, positive comments stick too, ya know, and I was very grateful she took the time to talk to me about my potential and give me such encouragement.  



This is the cake they made for the graduation dinner. it looks like I am pointing to the wrong name. That isn’t because I had finished off my bottle of wine (yet). It is mearly the angle of the camera. Nevertheless, this cake is proof that I did indeed graduate. La ti da!



No, I didn’t do any dancing at graduation. This is a hug. I had to hug someone and our program director was directly in the line of fire. 


My best friends from school. Next to me is Sue, my roommate, a fine poet with a wicked sense of humor. she made the experience bearable in the best of ways.  Beside her is Alice, a wonderful fiction writer who is also ran a garden business for years and who recently sold a book on gardening. She writes wonderful prose about country life and the beauty of nature. She also sees life much as Sue and I do.  We were the three musketeers (not to be confused with the three stoogies.)

I loved that my family was there to celebrate with me and help make the moment fun. Um… in this picture you can see how I handed down my deep intelligence to my daughter. Oh, and Mark wanted me to point out here that it was “snowing in July” – which explains his white hair. He also suggested I mention the explosion at the powdered sugar factory next door.  But who are we kidding, I know you see through the ruse. You are all thinking, “We get it . . . .no man can be married to a girl like that and NOT end up with white hair.” 


Anyway – a  big toast to me.
I’m loathe to share these pictures because I’ve gained ten pounds in the last two years with all the FLEX stress and school stress, and no-running stress, and stress stress. I’m gross. But, I am ready to rectify that ten times over. Began the diet yesterday….. can barely move thanks to the pump class we gave ourselves. I know I can’t do anything about the wrinkles, but I sure as hell can keep a pretty bod if I’ve a mind to, and I am determined to do just that. Now, I have presonal time that doesn’t have to be designated for school, my life has finally evened out so I can get  back into a routine. FLEX and that nightmare is over. School is over. Building the house is over. Time to write. To run. To make wine and drink it. Yippee.

Yesterday, Cory got the financing approved to buy our Sarasota Building. All systems are “go”. There will be another fine dance institution to take over where we left off in Sarasota this fall. We look forward to helping him in any way we can, and the plans we are cooking up together to set his dreams on course are very exciting. It gives closure to dance for Mark and I in the best of ways. We are delighted. But I have no time to talk about it now.  I am leaving this morning to go to Boston to finish my MFA requirements and then to graduate. Yippee for me!

As a person who often assesses meaning and purpose in the coincidences fate tosses out, the timing of my educational experience has been remarkably interesting. Low residency MFA’s are very competitive and difficult to get into. I applied to many schools, but was declined. I was even declined to Lesley. Then, on the very day the soon-to-be new owners of FLEX made an offer to buy our business, I came home to an unexpected acceptance call (I was on a wait list for Lesley and someone had decided not to attend). It was a last minute invitation which meant the commencement of my writing journey would begin the very same week we turned over the keys to FLEX. I believed this was a sign. It provided new opportunity to be excited about, which made it far easier to say “Yes” to the FLEX offer.

Two months later, I attended my first residency, and the very day I began writing classes happened to be the day we closed on the dance school sale. I had to leave a seminar to fax my signature to the closing. Again, I felt that this was a “sign” that I was meant to do something different now. FLEX was no longer ours, and here I was in a writing program I wanted desperately to attend, learning what I needed to know to forage a new career.

For the entire two years I have been in this MFA, trying to focus on writing, I have been pulled back into the turmoil and frustration of FLEX as things went sour. I thought getting my MFA would be a celebration of my freedom to pursue new dreams. But instead, it was an endless time of heartbreak, frustration and financial stress which made concentration on writing difficult. But I kept at it (even though I thought seriously of quitting more often than I like to admit.) And don’t ya know, of all things, I wrote a thesis novel about dance. What was I thinking? (More salt on the wound than even I was ready for.)

The FLEX eviction happened the very week my thesis was due. Talk about two poignant endings to wrestle with at once. Now, this week, I am finally closing the book on our former school. I am closing the book on my book about dance at the same time. It is as all things are pointing to dance being really over in my life. And I find it amazing that the day before I leave to get my diploma, we seal the deal to sell our building to an old student, which finally closes the door to our involvement with our former school forever. We will visit to teach, give Cory our guidance and consultation, but our future is no longer dependant upon the dance decisions someone else is making. Our financial stability and the ability to invest in a new business is no longer limited because everything we have is still wrapped up in that building.  FLEX had a slow and painful death. My entry into the writing world had a slow and painful entry. I can’t help but think the timing of these two significant elements of my life are strongly intertwined. The timing is too coincidental.

Today, as I prepare to go to the airport, I feel as if a huge gust of fresh air has finally swooped up, allowing me to breathe at long last. After this week, I’ll be able to return to writing what I feel inspired to write, with new confidence in my developed skill and understanding of writing as an art form.  I am so ready to “retire” my dance book, or at least set it aside for awhile, to concentrate on something less painfully personal. I am grateful that I don’t have to actively mourn our former school anymore – I will always miss it and feel sad about its end, but the FLEX years can take their place in the vault of important memories and life altering experiences in my mind. And I have every confidence that the new school taking its place will be an evolution of our past that will bring a smile to our face and help heal our feelings of loss.

It seems this is the end of our transition period. No one will even know how difficult it has been for us, or how we welcome a fresh start at long last.

I am going to graduate now. I’ll be back in a week (with pictures.)
Gee, I hope I don’t trip as I walk up to the podium or get tongue tied as I do my first public reading. But if I do, I will keep going and act as if nothing happened. That is something I learned from dance.
We are all the sum of our life experiences. So, for the good and the bad, today, I am grateful.

It’s like, at the end, there’s this surprise quiz: Am I proud of me? I gave
my life to become the person I am right now. Was it worth what I paid?
-Richard Bach, writer (1936- )

Yesterday, the director of the local college asked me if I would talk to volunteers and head a training session for new literacy tutors this summer.
My first reaction was, “Why me? I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m winging it.”
However, she and others working with the literacy commission are impressed with Kathy’s success story, and I guess, they are assigning me some degree of credit.
Honestly, I believe it is more a result of lucking out and being paired with an earnest student. I know I’ve been a good influence, but without a well-intentioned, eager person at the other end, I couldn’t have made much of a difference. As a dance school director, my motto was always “There are no bad students, only bad teachers,” which I reinforced every time I could with staff. I wanted teaches to take responsibility for their student’s progress, reminding them that if the child was not engaged, that signified that the teacher was not engaging. Nevertheless, that doesn’t account for the fact that within any given class (all subject to the same teaching) some students excelled and others were a trial. Therefore, it is fair to say that the base personality of the student does make a difference.   

The director pointed out that Kathy wasn’t much different from others in the beginning. She reminded me that Kathy landed in jail after our first four months, but I stuck by her, never giving up or judging, encouraging her in positive ways. That set a tone to our relationship, which gave Kathy the impression that this reading ordeal was really important.
I pointed put that the judge demands all people in drug court go to school to get their GED, so Kathy continued her reading lessons to meet this requirement. Nevertheless, at the same time, I never had to coax Kathy to lessons. She’s always come with a great attitude and a deep sense of gratitude, which makes it a pleasure for us to meet, talk and learn. Her attitude was (and is) key to her own success.

Looking back on it now, I believe the drug ordeal made teaching Kathy to read a different kind of challenge for me– one that intrigued me on a new level. Suddenly, it wasn’t just about helping a woman write her name on an application anymore or teaching her to read a newspaper. It became a quest to help a woman change everything about her life. I associated learning to read with her becoming a valuable member of society. I’m convinced literacy goes hand in hand with social enlightenment and I wanted proof. I wanted to see what kind of impact the act of reading could have on an individual’s life and those they encounter.  There was more at stake than introducing someone new to books now.  This one small act might have a chain reaction of positive changes for many people.

Donna said that the difference between my instruction and other peoples’ was the creative element. I do things beyond the traditional sitting down to study spelling or reading. Like the day I brought in cooking ingredients with a cooking magazine and assigned homework of following a recipe. This taught Kathy not only about reading, but practical application (and how to measure ingredients). That was a huge success.
I bought her an address book and gave her homework to collect friends and relatives addresses and numbers. Later, I brought in Christmas cards and she had to address them all. Good writing practice. We sent a card to the judge and her probation officer (Ha, can’t hurt to remind them she is hard at work to improve her situation.) That was a big hit.
I made her buy a monthly planner and we put all our lessons and her other appointments in it. Heck, she is more organized than I now.
For her birthday this week, I bought her a gift certificate to a woman’s clothing store. It is the kind that works like a credit card. I know Kathy does not have a bank account, and certainly, she has never had a credit card. As I guessed, she was delighted, but she didn’t know how to use it. So I explained how a gift card worked and sent her off after the lesson to shop. This was a birthday gift, but at the same time, a great learning opportunity. (One mistake however, I bought a birthday card and was careful to print a message inside for her to read, but I didn’t notice that the card’s message was in cursive. We haven’t tackled cursive yet, so she couldn’t read it very well. Dang.)
Kathy finds learning fascinating and she is forever marveling at the novelty of the world – things you and I take for granted are new discoveries to her. This allows me to see the world through fresh eyes and makes me appreciate everyday conveniences. That makes this project of teaching someone to read as good for me as for the student.
 
Unfortunately, I am one person, and the problem of illiteracy in this area is huge. More people need to be involved to make a dent in the vast need. Therefore, I agreed to do the training. In fact, I’m really looking forward to it and I’ll put in the time and research to do the job well.   
There is no doubt that I am very effective as a teacher’s teacher, for I’ve developed teacher training programs for years (in dance and the arts). I am told I’m inspirational and creative, two good traits when you are guiding others in how to share knowledge in a way that will stick. However, I don’t feel academically qualified in the way a trained teacher would be to talk about systems or how to structure a progressive reading syllabus. I thought it only fair to point that out.

Donna (the director) said the problem with reading tutors is that they volunteer with this misconception that the student will be reading Moby Dick in a few months. They give up when they discover the reality is a long, hard road where basic literacy is the most you can hope for.
Sheepishly, I told her I suffered the same delusions when I started, so I understand how people come into the program with misconceptions. Only in my case, I don’t quit anything I start, so I adjusted my expectations as I went the moment I discovered I was delusional in regards to the end goal. I simply set new goals. I also developed an appreciation for basic literacy that made the idea of reading Moby Dick seem pretty unimportant. Living well relies on so much more than being able to follow words tucked inside the pages of books.

Anyway, it looks like I have to start paying attention to my lessons now so I can figure out what I’m doing right (and wrong). I have to make notes – give thought to how to pass on what I’ve learned. Eesh, so much for relaxing and winging it.

Kathy has been asked to speak to high school children in remedial classes twice now. They relate to her message when she discusses how she began using drugs, how difficult it was to break free, and how she struggles with literacy today after attending school for nine years (and not learning even the alphabet).  She is the voice of experience and hope, as she strives to save them from learning ugly life lessons the hard way. She was also asked to speak at a place called the Ester House, which is a halfway house for girls who get pregnant in their teens. Most do not have their GED and many have had problems with drugs. Kathy is someone they can ask questions of, and she is a very positive and encouraging speaker as she empathizes and supports young people, reminding them that they still have choices – now is the time to do what it takes to provide a better future for themselves (and their babies).

Last week, Donna asked Kathy if she would speak to the rotary club. Kathy said sure, but when Donna left, she turned to me and whispered. “Why the heck does she want me to talk to the rotary club? I’m sure all them can read already.”

I explained that her success wasn’t inspirational only to those who can’t read. She is a model of what everyone wishes their volunteering would do, someone who might encourage more people to choose to be tutors. It is very important that people see and hear firsthand how a life can change when someone steps forward to help. Kathy nodded and said, “I never considered that. But I’m only good because I have such a good teacher.”
She gives me credit too, and I am humbled by it. Again, I iterate, it was much more her doing than mine.

Still, I think it is fair to say we are a good team and heaven thrust us together for a greater purpose than just teaching Kathy to read a stop sign. Maybe together, we are two parts of the literacy puzzle that fit in such a way it inspires others to join in to make the big picture come together. I once wrote an article for a dance periodical (first I ever published) called “The student/teacher collaboration”. I’ve always instinctly believed that good chemistry is required between the student and the teacher for the educational experience to be truly wonderful. It has to be more than a routine task. 

I plan to write an article about Kathy for the local paper soon. I’m waiting for her to reach a slightly higher grade equivalency so the story has more impact (or those who don’t understand how big her reaching even a 2.5 grade level is).  I hope to make Kathy the poster child for literacy success. I know I can write a story in a way that will delight her, offering strong acknowledgment for her hard work, but it will also set the seed of an idea in the minds of people who read the article. Might even bring new tutors to the table. It is also a good exercise for me. I am a writer now. Might as well put the skill to good use.

I think the hardest part of leaving dance, was leaving the young people we truly influenced. Many students were at FLEX for recreational purposes, but others came from disadvantaged or dysfunctional families, many needing the discipline and/or the caring we displayed day in and day out through the artistic medium. Some students needed the scholarships. Many, many needed an adult who stood still for a moment to watch and listen to them with 110% percent of their attention, which is something we did everyday. I dreadfully miss being important to someone’s life. I think working with Kathy fulfills this horrible loss. She is only one person, and I know I should do more (I think about just what I should do, and how to go about doing it, all the time) but at least I am doing  something. We all have needs, which make our purpose on this planet make sense. For me, obviously, mentoring is important.

Anyway, Kathy gave me a gift at our last lesson, and I really want to share it. It is my first (and no doubt best) graduation gift, one I will cherish forever. This has a place of honor in my study now. Here it is – don’t snicker or I’ll pop ya.

She makes these sorts of knick knacks by walking the woods to find driftwood pieces. Then she glues flowers and little animals and such from the dollar store, moss and other finds, to the base to make a display. She said she had to look a long time to find something to represent a writer, and she was delighted when she found the bear. The bear is me, you see, scribbling away with a pad and pen, books all about. I’m sure many of my previous students would agree a bear describes me well.   Well, I’m all growl and no bite, friends. Believe it.

Kathy feels good because she has given me a gift. She has no idea how many gifts she has already bestowed.   

I write often about our country adventures because I know it’s fun for friends to read about the award attempts to reinvent our world. I haven’t written as much about my MFA, which is odd considering it has consumed the majority of my time these past two years. I guess I fear the subject is boring to non-writers, but the fact that I don’t mention it often doesn’t mean I’m not still plugging away at this project each and every day.

I’ve cursed myself for enrolling in a masters program during this awkward life transition period a million times over, but now that I am at the end , I’m very proud I stuck it out. Origionally, I imagined we would sell FLEX and I’d have some time for private contemplation – time to devote exclusively to my writing. I had no idea that it would be years before life would settle so I’d have a moment to think, much less write. I was very naive to think that we would sell our business and leave a lifetime of dance behind and it would be as easy as picking up a check, packing a truck and driving away. And carving out a new existence from scratch takes more effort than I imagined too. Leave it to me to aggravate the difficulties by inviting a huge project (35 hours a week on an MFA) into the mix. Of course, I never forget that taking on such a task is a choice. I could have left school when I realized what a stress it would be. Or we could always have bought a nice town house somewhere and cooled out a bit while I got my MFA and Mark learned his woodworking if that was a priority, but doing things in a practical, non-stressed way isn’t us. No, we are more the type to tackle the impossible and fully load our plate just to see what we can do. And we are not the sort of people who let go easily and never look back, so any thoughts I had about focusing forward towards our new home and careers without separation anxiety or sadness was a joke. Ah well, all’s well that ends well. 

Anyway, I turned my thesis in to my teacher a few weeks ago and it was sent back with some very insightful notes. The general impression is that I’ve written a very good book for an MFA student at the start of her lifelong literary journey. Pretty much everything my professor said about the book reinforced that I accomplished exactly what I was setting out to do. Dance is a very dear subject to me, and I struggled to write something fictional that was authentic and without sentimentality or romance yet defined the magnitude of  the art’s impact on the lives of those who sucumb to the siren’s call. Mark (also a dancer) feels I captured the complex issues of love and hate well. I am proud of that. This doesn’t mean I’ve written a good book that anyone would enjoy reading – only that I wrote a story from a “real place”. And this has taught me a great deal. Furthermore, I think it gives me closure somehow. What I do with the book next is secondary. The true value was in the process of writing it.

I next  sent the book to my thesis reader who will return it any day now with yet more notes and my “OK to graduate” form. Then, it will be bound and turned in to the program director for display at the senior readings, only to be forever shelved with a million other thesis’ that no one will ever bother to read. I have to pick selections of the manuscript to read to an audience a few nights before graduation. I have no clue what to recite, but I’ll decide later.

The final thing I must do before graduating is teach a seminar to other students in the masters program. I chose the subject of blogging and online writing communities as a medium of creative input and support. It is a subject that isn’t exactly embraced warmly by the literary world. I’ve had to be careful to find an academic angle to make it work. As such, I’ve done a great deal of reading about blogs. It has made me question my involvement as a personal blog writer on more than one occasion. But for all that I can build a case against my blogging, I have my own reasons for continuing. So, despite the cons, I’ll be around for a while. 

Just to prove I am still a student, laboring in school month after month, sweating to appear intelligent despite my natural tendencies to be a queer-bo romantic, I thought I’d share my outline for my senior seminar lecture. For all that writing a book is difficult for me, teaching a class isn’t. I don’t care what the subject matter is, I can put together a progressive lecture in my sleep. Passing information along in a concise way is my specialty. So, I think this class plan will work. I am relieved to send it off today (a day early). I suppose Jamie Woodman will send me corrections. Ha.  
 
Finishing this outline means I am now, more or less a free individual again. I have no more assignments or material to turn in to school – ever. No more books to read or annotate.  I ordered my cap and gown today. Gee, the last time I ordered cap and gowns I was ordering them by the dozen. They were purple and size extra-small toddler (for the preschool). How different life can become in an instant.   

I’ve collected my research, and I’ll spend a few days organizing my class before I go to give it in June. I’ll make fancy packets of research material and supporting articles for the students, because I think a nice presentation and good material helps people learn. But that’s it. I’m almost done. I’m a smarty pants MFA graduate now – almost.

It feels a bit like when you finish a really long, involved book. You feel a bit lost at first, and can’t imagine living without those characters in your life. And you feel ungrounded because you don’t know what you want to read next. Being cut lose is unnerving. But all you need to do is pick up a new book and you are soon engaged in a new story. Now that I’m closing the cover on my MFA I look forward to whatever comes next. In a way, I am frozen with indecision because I can write anything I want now. The massive choices leave me slightly paralyzed. Do I want to return to my historical novels and rewrite them. Or work on a memoir about moving to the country. Do I want to finish the dance book and send it out to publishers. Or write about teaching a girl to read? So many choices. Well, I’ll follow my heart. Maybe I’ll write them all, dependant on my mood each day.

Anyway, for those who want to be put to sleep, or who doubt I have any intellectual capabilities at all, here is my MFA senior seminar outline. It’s my last official academic outpouring. I can go back to being stupid and corny now. (Big sigh of relief.) And as you can see, a blog can be (and is) more than a letter to the world if you scratch the surface.  

GINNY’S SENIOR SEMINAR CLASS TITLE AND DESCRIPTION

Books Born of Blogs
(Using contemporary cultural trends and technology
for inspiration, research and feedback.)

Description AS IT APPEARS IN STUDENT HANDBOOKS:This class will explore the pros and cons of blogging, web writing communities and other pop culture venues available to writers today. Books will be reviewed that began as blogs, but evolved when they developed an enthusiastic audience with a discussion about whether a blog is a viable free writing forum that promotes daily practice and a foundation for ideas, or is more of a self-publication venue that wastes time and encourages the writer to unleash unpolished work that would better develop with time and space to ferment privately. The seminar will also explore the blogging trend as a method of research and realistic character development, look at successful author’s and publisher’s blogs, and then turn the attention to on-line writing communities. For those who are concerned about writing becoming a solitary pursuit when the MFA ends, this class will provide resources for staying connected, inspired, and creatively fueled by tapping into current cultural fads with wisdom and care. 

All reading materials will be handed out in the class.

CLASS OUTLINE:
I.  INTRODUCTION:
In some ways, the beauty of writing as an art form is its simplicity. All you need is a pencil and paper to begin orchestrating an original expression, something that may have the potential to become a poignant work, resonating with readers long after the pages have been put aside. However, it is said that art also reflects life, and as our culture evolves to include technology based sensibilities, should the artist adapt? A study of classical literature often is the foundation for a deeper appreciation of literary style and technique, but where do we draw the line between commercial enterprise and authentic social portrayal when we engage in pop culture interests? Some authors believe it is best to avoid any endeavor with the potential to be a “fad”, thus tagging their work as less than serious. Others boldly venture into new waters to explore the vast potential of new artistic avenues today, inviting criticism and skepticism from literary purists.

What is the right choice, the safe choice, the best choice, for an aspiring writer who hasn’t yet developed enough of a following or a reputation to take risks without critics instantly discrediting their work? Moreover, where do we draw the line determining what is procrastination (wasting valuable creative time) and what is considered viable research and valuable input? Can our best work thrive if we only engage in focused efforts born of solitary concentration, or do we enrich our material by inviting thought, experience and influence from the outside world for mental contemplation? 

Taking advantage of technology based writing communities all depends on whether or not the author can explore new writing venues with an understanding of their pros and cons. We must tread lightly on commercial venues, respecting change yet not questioning the inherent merit or disadvantages that come with embracing it. Engaging in technology based writing endeavors demands an open artistic mind and no small measure of self-discipline.  The key is balance and developing an intellectual understanding of both the positive and negative elements whenever we venture into areas of unproven (as yet) artistic resources.

II    Introduction TO BLOGGING: pass out articles to support the follow discussions.
      1. What is a blog?
Short history of the blog. Social impact of the blog.
Introduction of books sold as result of popular blogs.
Introduction of literary blogs and renowned author blogs.
The dangers of blogging.
a. Vanity press or viable format for free writing practice?
b. Is a blog considered publication (thus giving away your work for free or limiting future sales potential?) Is plagiarism a threat?
c. Blogging for bucks – article about staff positions as professional bloggers. Discussion: does blogging provide on-going free writing practice and enhance discipline due to the fact that you have an audience, or does it encourage an author to release unpolished work too soon?
d. The literary community’s opinion  – article: Bloggers Need Not Apply, from the Chronicle of Higher Education, about how bloggers will not be considered for Academic positions in many universities and why.

    2. Discussion of blog surfing as a source of creative fuel to ignite characterization,     
        story development and/or research for fiction.

a.   Read select pieces from the book I Blog Therefore I Am giving examples of inspirational creative springboards.
b.  Discuss methods of finding blogs written about select subject matter.
c.  Can you trust a blog? Does it matter if you can or can’t authenticate the material if it is used for fiction or poetry? Discuss the moral issue of perusing blogs as a creative resource.
d. Short introduction of this author’s experience with blogging and my personal thesis evolution with passages that began as personal essay, then changed to first person commentary, to diary entries, and settling finally on blog entries as a fictional form of expression to support the story. How does this affect the book?

III INTRODUCTION TO ONLINE WRITING COMMUNITIES pass out resource list.
    1. Discussion (as time permits) to address: 
a. Online writing critic groups
b. Literary online communities
c. Online literary contests and magazines.

     Discussion: Can online communication with other writers become a useful substitute resource for collaboration and feedback after graduating and leaving the secure environment of the MFA community?

IV. CONCLUSION: There is no right or wrong in regards to honoring literary tradition and/or embracing new vehicles of written communication today. Each individual author must decide if web communication, in its many forms, will aid the development of their personal art.

Today, I am ruthlessly killing segments of my novel in this, the final revision of my thesis. Time is closing in on me, and I can no longer fudge around trying to save those precious intellectual lectures that I slipped into the story. They were didactic, preachy and dragged the story down. This does not mean I didn’t work like the devil to fit them in, like a square peg into a round hole. 

I wrote them first, you see, as a free writing exercise in a seminar. I was told the pieces were good, so I used one in the submission that led to acceptance into my master’s program. I included it in the material for my first term critique workshop and was encouraged by the professor and students to expand it into a bigger story. This seduced me into considering dance as the subject for my ongoing thesis project.  The actual story of my novel was invented like filler, an idea wrapping around the essays. This made the novel somewhat contrived, rather than being inspired by a plot which is how I usually write.   

At first, I tried to pass the essays off as mental meanderings – as if my frustrated character was thinking all this philosophical stuff about dance. That didn’t work.
Next, I turned the essays into diary entries – as if my main character was writing formal essays to get her thoughts about her former career off her chest. I even invented a therapist, Marilyn, for her to discuss the entries with, to provide a bigger forum for intellectual debate. That didn’t work either. Had to kill Marilyn after my second term.
 
My teachers said, “The essays are very well-written. Some are the best writing you’ve done. But nevertheless, No one writes that formally in a diary, and no one cares about dance in this way. Stick to the story. It’s more interesting. “
The problem was, I didn’t believe no one cared. I happened to care about dance in that way, and I found the discussions interesting. Obviously, I had things to say and I wanted to use this book to say them. And people said things like they were “compelling” or “opened my eyes” and this made me think that if I could find a way, I should keep them.

But what I eventually learned was, I should be writing a story about a person and her journey as a retired dancer, thus letting readers come to their own conclusions about dance, but I was writing a story about dance, hitting readers over the head with it’s many issues just in case they didn’t “get it” instead.  And a story about dance (philosophically) lacks the human interest pull that keeps a reader involved.

So, realizing this, I invented a pedicurist – a Vietnamese girl who listens to Dana (my leading character) vent as she fixes her sore feet (a metaphor for how painful dance had become for her), and I tried to change the essays and turn them into less formal conversations. This still didn’t work totally (although this new character, Tu, remained and added a great deal to the story.) Some glimmers of the formal essays made it in, but most had to go.

Each revision, the story got more defined and better. But still, it has a way to go.
So, this week, at long last, I’m killing the essays. It’s time.  Heck, It’s past time. As each one hits the dust, I cringe and mope.
Mark said, “Maybe you need to write another book – some kind of nonfiction social commentary on dance.”
I really have no interest in that. But thanks for giving my heated opinion validation by suggesting it.

One professor told me that my writing the essays was important even though they are not going to be a part of the book, because they solidify my character and help give her more depth. I think he is right. You can’t bemoan the work you do that doesn’t make it into the book, because it is a bit like those scenes that end on the cutting room floor when they edit a movie. What’s lost isn’t as important as what is gained by creating a story that is well paced and organized. You can spend hours on a passage but that doesn’t mean it has intrinsic value.

In the end, I’ve accepted that I wrote these dang things for me. After a lifetime of feeling passionate about the art, I had to give my feelings a voice. That voice doesn’t need to be heard (read) to have served a purpose.

Anyway, no more preaching essays about dance in my book (now entitled “Turning off Center”.)
And just to prove to you how wrong these essays were for a fictional novel (which believe it or not has a great deal of humor and fun in it too) I thought I would share one of the more pompous ones that just cropped up as I hit page 143 of my current revision. I killed the dang thing just now. This one is about how critical dancers are of each other, self righteous about their particular path rather than embracing the art in it’s many fascinating forms.

Here it goes.
Read it and weep. Or snore, as the case may be.  Ha. See how I contrive a way to get someone to read them in the end even when I profess that it isn’t important.

      Dance is more like a religion than a vocation or special interest to those of us involved. Its congregation is made up of devout followers unified by one core ideology. Having joined the order, dancers engage in daily rituals, warm-ups, classes, auditions, choreography, all part of an ongoing quest to manifest purpose and seek validation for our devotion to the craft. The studio is our church, the stage our pulpit.

     Like religion, the basic premise of our ideology is beautiful. Dance can fill your soul with joy. Art teaches us about life and love. It makes our world a better place. But, as with any religion, theory and practice are two different issues.

     Any gathering of like-minded souls feeding each other’s monstrous ideals can become a mob casting stones at everyone who doesn’t share similar artistic values. The average worshiper is a good-natured soul who attends a weekly service and has a healthy connection to their faith. But dancers are more like the religious zealot, obsessing about their art, dismissing all those who dare follow a separate path.

     As dancers, we begin with one core ideology. But swayed by personality, physical traits, upbringing, and the social environment, dancers divide into sects of Ballet, Modern, and contemporary dance styles,(jazz).  Once a dancer is fully embraced in one of these communities, the dancers who chose to walk alternate paths become “others”.  If there is one thing seemingly universal about religion,  it would be that in order for us to be “right”, “others” must be wrong.

    Ballet advocates approach dance with a purist mentality, putting stock in literal translations of what is and is not correct.   With ballet their doctrine, they’re not unlike born again Christians or Catholics, literal in their interpretation of “the word” as they interpret it. Proud of the stringent sacrifices they make to master their art, ballet dancers are righteous in their movement philosophy.  Their saints are Balanchine, Pavlova and Baryshnikov. They worship at the church of Vaganova, Checetti or Royal ballet. Steeped in history and the sacrifices of their past saints, they believe all those who have not chosen “ballet” as the path to heaven are lost souls.

     Meanwhile, modern dancers are a little like Hara Krishna’s or some other cult, a religion just outside of society’s norm. Dancers with bohemian and/or rebellious natures are attracted to this sect, forever striving to cut a new path into movement wilderness. Modern dancers defy the rules of physical grace associated with beauty. They embrace contorted, ugly, halting or awkward movement, claiming life is not always pretty. This, they believe, is moving with truth.

         These modern dancers divide into defined orders too, becoming disciples of the masters they admire, Graham, Limon, Cunningham, or Parsons. For them, contact improvisation is taking communion. For lent, they give up pointing their feet.  The modern dancer’s confessional is the stage, a place they display dances about the human condition. There’s nothing entertaining about grief, mental stress, or personal torment, yet they tackle these themes in performance vigorously, venting their truths with impassioned fire and brimstone sermons.

    Meanwhile the outside dance world looks on, amused, hiding expressions of chagrin over the modern dancer’s adolescent and agnst. Yet, at the same time, the, modern dancers cannot resist making fun of those involved in other disciplines. They insist ballerina’s are just stiff “bun heads” who continue to reinvent the wheel. Jazz dancers have sold out to commercial enterprise.

     At least ballet and modern dancers share a common intellectual understanding of movement and their training processes are similar enough that they offer each other a degree of respect. These classical dancers, on occasion, even cross over from one discipline to the other. The ballet dancer trains in modern to add depth to his or her movement. The modern dancer takes ballet class to find his or her center. Privately, they dish one another, but publicly, they behave with respect and professional curtsy for their sister art. They do have one thing in common. Neither holds much regard for the jazz or theater dance advocate.     

     Jazz dance is defined as “dance of the people, movement that changes and evolves in response to influences of our culture.” In other words, its “common”, and dance sophisticates have little patience for what they perceive as a simplistic parody of the art. Jazz dancers, intimidated by how the profession discredits their core knowledge, avoid delving into areas that make them feel inadequate. So they learn just enough classical technique to serve as a foundation for movement, dwelling in popular cultural styles and trendy movement instead.

     Jazz has subdivisions within its ranks too; hip-hop, lyrical, vintage jazz, and theater dance just to name a few. If Jazz was a faith, it would be a Unitarian parish, liberal by nature. Jazz dancers don’t feel as if they’re guilty sinners, because they don’t adapt the idea that severe sacrifice is required to get into dance heaven. Their faith is somewhat dependant upon instant gratification. Jazz is the dance religion of the masses, thanks to exposure on MTV, Broadway, movie musicals. There is strength (validation) in numbers.   

     With a fair claim on the majority of employed dancers in the world, jazz dancers can’t help but poke fun at the other, more stringent dance forms. For all the snobbery the classical dancers cling to, they receive a poor return for their training investment. Jazz dancers are streetwise, smug in their commercial success. . . and their higher paychecks.

     Thus fuels the ongoing dance religion wars. 

     What is my place in this trilogy of animosity?  I’ve spent time in each of the dance denominations. I’ve studied ballet, modern and theater dance, and worked a bit in each.  Perhaps I’m too much the idealist, for I never found satisfaction in any form alone. I never felt I belonged to one church of movement. In the end, I think I lost faith all together. 

     So now, I guess I’m a dance atheist.

    No, an agnostic.

     It’s not that I don’t believe in pure spirituality in dance. It’s just that I’m still looking for proof that it exists.


Now, you may ask, what did I write instead? Well, I invented a short scene, which I will share – even though out of context it may not have much impact. At this stage of the book, my heroine has taken a group of downs syndrome students to a dance competition and she has strong negative feelings about the event (although the students were treated well and won a nice trophy). A chapter describing the event and all that happens, showing dance in a different light, has just occured. This is the end (taking the place of the above essay.)  

Driving home, her mind circled the competition dance arena and how young people today were being taught to view her beloved art. It seemed nowadays, dance was all about immediate satisfaction and showing off for instant rewards. Perhaps she was just getting old, resistant to a new way of thinking, like those grumbling old men who claim they walked ten miles to school in the snow. Uphill both ways. But honestly, she still believed dancers worked harder, for less tangible rewards, in her day.
     She couldn’t stop thinking about Max and the influence he’d have on his gifted son. As far as she was concerned, the boy represented tomorrow’s dancers. The idea that such a nice kid was being brainwashed to approach the art with arrogant superiority and a forgone assumption about what forms of dance are good and what aren’t, caused her stomach to churn. How could something as simple as dance become such a complex war of emotional and egotistical importance? And why hadn’t she ever noticed this before? More importantly, why did she care, considering she was stepping out the back door, leaving the party for good?
         She looked in the rearview mirror at the cheep plastic trophy in the backseat. 1st place overall. What did  that monstrosity symbolize. 
     That she was joining the ranks of dancers today who embrace lower standards for the art?
     That those involved in dance are, deep down, good souls who care more about people than craft? 
    Or was this “win” proof that all the effort to pursue perfection is, in reality, fruitless, because what defines great dance has nothing to do with formal technique?
    Then again, maybe it just means a hundred bucks today can buy anybody, even blundering retarded kids, a trophy that says they can dance.

*    *    *
   “The man was a real snob. He had this attitude that ballet is the kind of dance that deserves respect, and jazz doesn’t count,” she said to Shelly on her cell phone while driving home. She’d promised to call her mother first to report the results, but for some reason, she wanted to talk to her best friend instead.
     “That’s no surprise. All dancers are grossly critical of others.”
    “I beg your pardon. Not me.”
    Shelly chuckled, but didn’t say anything more.
    “Oh God. Am I like that?”
    “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re far worse.”
    “But I know what I’m talking about when the subject is dance. I’m right.”
    “My guru says we all have our own version of truth. Nothing is true, and everything is true.”
     “That’s true,” Dana said.
     “I just didn’t know there was a right and wrong in art. I thought it was like beauty, in the eye of the beholder. Isn’t that what you mean when you profess that your downs syndrome kids are good dancers? If they were being judged only on skill, well, technically, they have some problems, right? I’m glad they won, but I bet there were some dancers in the room that thought their being recognized just because they were handicapped was, while lovely on one level, not exactly fair. The fact is, other dancers have worked for years on perfecting their skills and they came to that competition paying fees just to be recognized for it.”     
      Dana was quiet.  “No doubt.”
      “Point made.”
     “Point taken. Still, I think I’m right about dance. Not that guy.”
     “Of course you do.”