Category Archives: Read’in and Writ’in

I forgot to mention that Kathy Smith called the day before I went to Boston. She said she had been waiting to hear from me. I pointed out that I was at the college on Monday, July 3rd for our lesson, and when she didn’t show up, I tried calling, but her phone was disconnected. She insisted we agreed I’d call when I was home from my residency and has been anxiously awaiting word from me – that the disconnected phone was a temporary thing.  I told her not to worry, I planned to hunt her down as soon as school began, so it was not I would have let things go much longer. I am not the sort of girl that fades away . . . Once involved, I’m forever present, even when it seems as if I’m absent. My heart commitments don’t have a statue of limitations and no matter how demanding life gets, I find a way back to what is important. 

What counted was that we connected and made plans to continue tackling her illiteracy. I’m so glad, because I truly like her, and I like ME when I’m working with her. I respond well to the slap-in-the-face reminder that I am a fortunate individual. Sometimes I believe I am at my best when helping others help themselves. Anyway, I’m thrilled that my project of teaching Kathy to read is hanging in there – a bumpy road, for sure, but all the best destinations are at the end of bumpy roads. Fewer people are willing to endure all that jostled about when traveling roads with ruts and bumps. Makes arriving at those remote places so much sweeter than cruising the well-tred paved paths with crowds to places that aren’t so hard to reach. 

Tonight I will be collecting my materials, brushing up, and writing something for Kathy to read. I am developing our materials as we go. Funny, my best friends are never the people one would pair up with me for reasons of similar life-styles. The friends I appreciate most are people I admire, for uniqueness, ability to overcome adversity, attitude and heart.   

Anyway, tomorrow I will resumes my adventures with Kathy. Makes me smile. We can all use an extra smile a day. Maybe, I’ll take a picture of us together tomorrow so you can see her. A picture says so much about how our state. That said . . . this is me today. Grinning for private reasons. 

I am told I am a very good reader. Astute. My professors have commented that I pinpoint important elements in a work and understand their significance. Other students have said I’m a thorough reader with insight. As such, I’m a valuable peer in workshops. I don’t feel as if I’m a particularly good reader. I see words on the page, and since I don’t know how others would process them, I think and feel what I think and feel. Reading is a very intimate experience if you think about it.

 

I’m reading a fantastic book this week called In Fact, the best of creative non-fiction. (Edited by lee Gutkind). It is a book of nonfiction essays about life, event, attitudes etc…. by some of the most renowned writers published today. Each essay concludes with the author discussing the challenges and urges that gave birth to the essay, as well as advice or aspiring writers. I am loving this book. It makes me think. Feel. It inspires me. I have developed a fascination for creative non-fiction, and as soon as I graduate and finish my fiction project, I am looking forward to undertaking a memoir – maybe begin working on creative non-fiction projects for magazines. Creative non-fiction (a sister to fiction, only it’s based on life experience) is a far cry from traditional non-fiction, and 80% of all the works bought today for publication happen to be creative non-fiction. Guess that is an off-shoot of our reality TV culture.  But it is not because the style is so popular that I want to experiment in the genre. I think I am suited to it. Creative non-fiction feels natural to me – blends with my voice. If I had had a better understanding of literary disciplines when I began this MFA journey, I probably would have made it my major of concentration. Ah well, I am learning about it in conjunction with my fiction studies.

 

What else am I reading? Lots. I am reading The Poisonwood Bible now. And a slew of short stories and literary journals.  I don’t always feel like a good reader. Nonfiction moves me, but sophisticated fiction takes trust and contemplation to understand. Sometimes I struggle to grasp the core meaning in prose. Recently, I read a story that is written entirely in letters from and to a man in prison. This story is beautifully written because each letter has a distinct, individual voice and collectively, they make one conducive whole that supplies the reader with a bigger picture. I often wish I had the skill to pull off something this unique. I admire an author with such a strong natural gift for words. Artistic craft and personal flavor – what a combination! Anyway, I read passages of this story and didn’t know what to think. At first I thought, there is a very special message here. Then, I read on and thought, no, this is just a story and I am reading more into it than the author intended. (I’m aware that people so often see what they are looking for; mentally conjuring up what they wish was there. The author might just be having fun, and here I am foolishly trying to assign meaning where there is none when all I have to do is be entertained). Then, the pendulum of my mind swings back and I think, No, this is brilliant. This text is embedded with powerful messages – only, maybe I am too simple to understand them – help! Where is my literary decoder ring? Then, I decide it is only a story again and I feel so stupid for trying to complicate what is really just a lovely reading experience. No author should have to endure such scrutiny – a story is what it is. And maybe it isn’t important that I understand. Maybe I should just enjoy the amazing flow of words, the beautiful mind behind the masterpiece. I doubt my readers catch every nuiance or message, try as I might to write in multi-levels.

 

So, as you can see, I may seem like a good reader, but really it is fleeting. The luck of the draw. Sometimes I am on. Sometimes, I struggle, frustrated in my weakness. I long for simpler text and I think the next book I buy should be Literature for Dummies.

 

I wish I had all the answers. Or at least, a decoder ring.

Till then, I will just keep reading. Sometimes that is all you have.

* Ee-gad. It is almost time for my next class! Time flies when you are blogging instead of doing your homework.  I must jump into a phone booth and change back into super dance-teacher and fly back to the convention center.
Bye

     Last night I had to write a synopsis of my book in progress to include with my packet for my teacher. I hate writing a synopsis – they are far harder than writing the book. For one thing, they are not creative. It is difficult to boil an involved story down into a few pages. You must not leave out any details that are significant (and face it – if they aren’t significant, they shouldn’t be in your book, so you really need to include everything.) You must introduce every character and when and why they interact.

      I find a thorough synopsis about as riveting as directions to building a barbeque. Yet, you must not try to write it like a jacket cover, which is a sensationalized lure designed to sell a book to a potential reader. No, the synopsis is just the facts, mam, without flourish so an editor knows what the book is about and how events unfold. The story should be succinct, yet at the same time, must seem compelling. Those goals are a contradiction in terms, which is why I will repeat, I hate writing a synopsis.

     In this case, I haven’t finished the book, so while I can write the first half of the story easily, the second half is a bunch of guessing. Until you actually let your fingers unveil the tale, you never know what twists and turns it will take. So I have to fudge a bit, fake it, and pretend I know what will happen next, which feels forced and premeditated. But an assignment is an assignment and as the book changes, so too can the dreaded synopsis. It isn’t like a novel map that I am suddenly locked into following.

     Anyway, it occurred to me that a few of my friends who are interested in my writing endeavors might get a kick out of reading what this damn book is about. So, I’m going to share my sucky synopsis. For the record, this is not a semi-autobiographical novel, but you will see many events that smack of my experience and attitudes. I like to think I am drawing upon life experience to make this book capture truth, but I promise you, it is fiction. I have been dancing, teaching, and philosophizing about dance for so many years that it is all a jumble now – just the lingering resonance of a life lived in the dance lane.

   Diary of a Dancer’s Divorce is not plot driven, but more a literary venue. The events unfold to set a backdrop for digging into the emotional elements of life as an artist. Characters are introduced to spark philosophical debate about the many paths dancers take – the lives we live based on the decisions (compromises) we make along the way. This story is about how artists define themselves, and how that self-definition influences their behavior and attitudes about the world at large.

    The only other thing you need to know is that the book is formatted in an unusual way – it is written in three very different styles, pieced together to create one conducive message. It includes diary entries, which are first person essays about dance written by the heroine as a part of therapy. Then, there is third person narrative, which moves the story along – the bulk of the plot unfolds here. And last but not least, there are conversations with Marilyn, the therapist. She is sort of a catalyst who forces Dana to consider why she harbors the attitudes she does. This portion of the book is written primarily in dialogue, just snippets of therapy sessions interspersed throughout. I use a bit of sarcastic humor here, but I think it works. I also spent this month feeding in flashbacks – events from my heroine’s youth or years as a dancer, which help the reader understand why Dana is the way she is.  

        It is like this huge puzzle that I am trying to put together to form one picture. It’s hard as shit (gee aren’t I graceful with words) to do, because I’m piecing together all these misshapen pieces but I don’t know what the final picture is actually going to look like. I know what I am trying to accomplish, but having the skill to pull it off is another issue. This is why I alternately love and hate my book (and drive my professors batty with my frustration.) I can’t wait to finish it so I can move on to another, less trying, project.

    Denver read a portion of the book on the computer the other day and said, “Wow, this is a book that only you could write. It’s everything you believe, feel, and know. It’s you.”

    That’s interesting. The truth is, they say each of us should try to tell the story that only we can tell. I think this is it for me.  It’s painful to write something so close to your heart, so meshed with your reality, and yet, I must write it because it is a story that I alone can tell. This book is certainly nothing like my plot driven, fun historicals (which I still love). But just the fact that I am tackling something more challenging is a good for me – as a writer, a dancer, and a person.

   Anyway, here is the basic storyline as it currently stands. No snoring please.

    

 

 

DIARY OF A DANCER’S DIVORCE / SYNOPSIS

 

    When the love of her life abandons her for a younger woman, DANA SMITHERS is devastated. She thought she was prepared for what she knew was an inevitable conclusion, but the reality of this abandonment leaves her feeling overwhelmed. For Dana, the love of her life is not a man, but her vocation. Dance.

     Now, at 42, she is rebuilding her world and redefining herself. But left with bitterness for a profession that has forsaken her, she struggles to make peace with a body that has sustained years of abuse, a fickle career that favors youth, and the truth that after years of living in a vacuum of dance, she is without a basic awareness of the world at large.  Dana is uneducated, uninformed, and mortified as she confronts the truth that life stretches far beyond the boundaries of performance.

     Almost daily, Dana meets her mother, LEANNE, for lunch in a corner bistro where they debate her decision to retire. Leanne, a constant catalyst, reminds Dana of all she isn’t doing with her life, yet at the same time, she proves a concerned parent by giving Dana six months of therapy to help her with the life transition. Being a somewhat reluctant patient, Dana finds herself exploring her feelings about dance and aging through diary entries and discussions with a therapist, MARILYN.

       Depressed, and missing the physical high of dance, Dana becomes a runner. But in no time, she develops a foot injury forcing her to abandon this physical outlet as well. She moves on to biking, then working out at the health club, anything to quell her sense of physical loss.

        At a speed-dating event, she meets CLIFF, who danced as a young boy but quit to pursue football, a more comfortable choice for young boy forming his male identity. Cliff’s mother happens to own the local dance school, Betty’s Ballet Barn. Cliff now works as a high school coach; but his secret to a wining team is making the boys train in ballet as he did when young.  

      Though she has a prejudice towards recreational dance institutions, Dana finds that fate continues to thrust Betty’s Ballet Barn into her path. Her mother, Cliff, and her daily running path seem to carry her towards the school.  Pride forces her to stay away until, one day while running, she meets a child, JULIE, outside the studio. 

      Julie waits on the curb while her sister dances. “People like me don’t dance,” the child explains. She has downs syndrome.

    Dana believes dance is for everyone and that true art lies in unencumbered expression, yet she also believes only highly trained individuals should earn the title of “dancer”. If that were not so, her entire life, all the sacrifices she made, would have been purposeless. But Julie forces her to question her own prejudices and beliefs regarding art. When Julie moves with joyful abandonment to music, she seems like art personified to Dana, and touched by this, (and also pressured by the studio owner) Dana agrees to teach a class for students with downs syndrome.

      Researching the affliction on the internet, Dana learns the physical limitations of young people with downs syndrome and decides to quit before she begins. However, uncomfortable with this task, she puts canceling off until it is too late, and she has no recourse but to teach when the day arrives. She is not an enthusiastic or committed teacher, though she is unexpectedly  proficient.

      Dana’s handicapped class has seven students. As the individual personalities of this special population and their unconditional love for dance unfolds, they win her heart. The owner of the school implores her to teach some of her “normal” students, but Dana  refuses to work with the spoiled teenagers who are considered the “serious dancers” at the school. Resistant to discipline and balking professional training systems, Dana grows steadily more resentful of the youthful generation claiming her dance world. She blames society’s instant gratification mindset for destroying the dance ideology she loved and lost, and her disillusionment in the profession thrives.  Meanwhile, for all that she is trying to separate from dance, she continues to lurk on the edges of the art through her involvement with the handicapped students.

    When Dana takes her special needs group to a competition, she is introduced to a side of dance she had never been exposed to before. Here, dance is judged like a sport, and Dana is shocked to see tricks and competition feats earning points, while shading and style, the true elements of artistry, are forsaken. This fuels her frustration with the state of dance today.  Yet in the midst of this dance circus, she watches one school’s performance with admiration. Clearly a professional and very successful school, it manages to balance craft with artistry, winning top scores time and again.

      Impressed, she makes commentary on the strengths and weaknesses of the dancer’s performance out loud. She is most enthralled with a young, male student who displays intense passion and promise. In her opinion, he simply needs better jazz training to evolve.

    She utters her critique regarding the boy’s skill to a man standing by, MAX MATHEWS, unaware that he is the boy’s father and the owner of the dance school on stage. Indignant, he draws her into a sparring match about dance training and the state of dance education today.

    Dana joins her class backstage to prepare them for the competition. There, she meets the talented boy she admired on stage, RONNIE, who proves admirably supportive and helpful to her nervous dancers. Together they watch the handicapped students perform, after which, she learns Ronnie is the son and student of the very man she debated with earlier. Max joins them in the audience and shares her former critique of the boy’s dancing, forcing her to back peddle to preserve her new friendship with the young dancer. Dana wants to be supportive of Ronnie’s talent out of respect, and in consideration of his help backstage with her students.

     A month later, obsessed with dance and determined to be the best he can be, Ronnie arrives at Betty’s Ballet Barn. He watches Dana teach the handicapped students and, when she tries teaching the students a new dance, encountering resistance from the class, he jumps in and assists her. He is a natural teacher and his presence helps her accomplish much more than usual with the handicapped students. Ronnie offers to help her every week if she will coach him privately.

    Wanting to teach the boy that being a true artist means giving of yourself, and swayed by her disappointment with the selfish attitudes of the teen dancers at the school, Dana is compelled to work with this young, serious dancer. But helping any young person devote their life to dance seems a mistake, like hitting a funny bone, dredging up the stinging regret she is still wrestling with regarding her own career. She refuses.

       Disappointed, Ronnie exits the studio to the lobby, only to encounter the football players arriving for their lesson. Ronnie’s inability to fit in with normal teens is revealed when he is thrown a football and it bounces off his head. Dana contemplates how difficult it must be for a boy to dance in today’s society. Cliff, having left dance for that very reason, subtly tries to reduce the impact his rough football players have on the boy’s ego.

      Cliff asks Dana on a date, and impressed with his sensitivity towards Ronnie, she agrees. At dinner, they discuss what it is like to be a male dancer, which sheds light on both the decisions Cliff made regarding dance, and the young boy who now wants her coaching so desperately. This evening of intimacy leads to their becoming physically involved. Dana, dissatisfied and critical of her body throughout her life as a professional dancer, suddenly sees herself through Cliff’s eyes, as a woman rather than a dancer. This helps her to lean towards acceptance of her physical self for the first time ever. 

      Ronnie shows up to assist her handicapped class for two more weeks, and finally, swayed by Cliff’s former experiences and the boy’s persistence, she agrees to work with him.  Now, Dana is drawn back into the dance world with two ends of the spectrum forcing her to redefine what art really means. If she believes both the serious professional student and the handicapped students are true artists, then it must mean every level in between has merit too, even the recreational dancer that seems intent upon bastardizing her beloved craft.

    Miss Betty breaks her leg and requires temporary help in the school. Dana adamantly refuses to help with the older teens, whom she considers “bad dances”, but she does agree to teach several youth dance classes. She begins exploring dance with young students ages 5 – 7, a harrowing (yet amusing) experience for someone unaccustomed to children. The young children’s innocence and enthusiasm is not unlike that of her handicapped students, which serves to remind her that dance, stripped of the technical mastery, is still soulful and rewarding. Dana begins to realize that her frustration with dance is born of the aftereffects of the art on her ego and identity. Movement for movement sake is, and always will be, beautiful. 

      With her resentment for the art subsiding, Dana begins to treat the other students she encounters, including the advanced teen students, with more patience. She even teaches an occasional class for the older dancers in the school. As she becomes a better teacher, they become better dancers, and through this, Dana realizes that there is no such thing as bad dancers. Only bad teachers.

     Max soon discovers Ronnie’s private coaching sessions, but he allows the lessons to continue when he is unable to deny his son’s improvement. He also appreciates that Dana makes the boy work with the handicapped students to give something back to the art. Now, working with Ronnie means Dana must deal with his father, an opinionated, conceited, ballet teacher. Their ongoing debates, while annoying, reveal that they share the same idealistic views of dance as an art form and profession. The difference is how they react to those views and serve to correct what they see as faults in the dance world.  

     Max teaches Dana what true love for dance is really about –  taking the good with the bad, for better or worse. He shows her that she can love the craft even though it is undeniably flawed, and by teaching, she can dance forever through the generations that follow. She has become a strong teacher and as such, she can impact the dance world to mold it more to her artistic ideal.

      Dana’s bitterness turns into bittersweet understanding and acceptance as she learns to make peace with her art.  Dance never really abandoned her. It was she, blinded by ego, resenting the natural process of aging, who had abandoned it. She has learned that being an artist invites parasites to attach to one’s soul, wounds like barnacles creating a crusty, rough surface over the original smooth veneer of the dancer’s ego when the vessel is submerged in the dance waters too long. 

       The problem is, embracing dance once again will not negate the fact that Dana’s past commitment to the art will meant forgoing growth in other areas of her life, a reality that leaves her feeling somehow cheated in retrospect. She now wrestles with the fact that, if she so chooses, she can stay involved with dance forever, dancing through her students. This would be a comfortable choice, yet she is not comfortable with making it. Dana is compelled to experience all those areas of life she left behind in her pursuit of dance.

     Dana now understands that she can leave dance, rather than feeling it has left her, which makes the separation less wrought with anguish. She does not know what she wants or where to begin, but she decides to step away from the world she is so familiar with to discover other elements of life.  Dana wants to learn about the world at large in the hopes that she can become an involved part of it. So, she enrolls in college, safe in the knowledge that she can return to being a dance educator when and if she chooses.  Forced to choose a course of study, she considers theater management and even dance therapy, afraid to attracting attention to her intellectual limits. But in the end, she chooses bravely, picking coursework to become a counselor. She knows it will be hard, yet she also knows dance taught her discipline and commitment, benefits she can draw upon to successfully tackle any challenge.

    It is unclear whether Dana will later work with physically handicapped individuals, or those who are handicapped by their own self-definition, but she does know she wants to make a difference in the lives of others. Without dance. Despite dance. And because of it.      

         

(Corny ending, I know. I am queen of the corn, and I am constantly being corrected for it. At heart, I am a romantic queerbo who SHOULD be writing romance. I can only suppress this element of my nature so much. Can’t change this leopard’s spots, I’m afraid. I’ll just let my professor slash through that last line with her nifty red pen. I myself, don’t want to kill it without giving it a few days to live and breathe first.)

 

Life’s been busy. As such, I have more to write about than ever – but less time to do so. Ah, there’s the rub. But a blog only provides space for an inkling of information anyway, small smatterings of commentary that barely scratch the surface of a full, evolving life. I always feel somewhat guilty – as if not accounting for chunks of living will leave readers confused in the wake, incapable of understanding of my motivations for action – since what they see is nothing but a Swiss cheese version of what goes on. Well – sometimes, a small dose of something (removed) is far more satisfying than a full frontal encounter, so perhaps my sketchy reports serve to make me more interesting.

 

Anyway – sorry for everything I don’t share. They say writing is an act of making choices.  The choices we make have a significant impact on how a reader perceives our story. I assume that theory can be applied here – my blog is sort of a tale of what goes on in the heart of Ginny. I will strive to make good choices and hit key points so it will leave a resonance behind.

 

Considering that – today, I want to talk about my MFA residency experience.

 

When I went to Boston for my first term, a year ago, I was anxious. I spent most of the time getting acquainted with the process of this manner of literary education – it was all very alien to me. I was trying to guess how all the information would all fall into place and, considering I thought of myself as a dancer first, I felt academically challenged. Almost as if I’d bitten off more than my hunger for learning could digest. But I was excited to be participating in such a serious writing endeavor – even if I was a bit overwhelmed.

 

My second term, I was anxious as well. But this time, it was frustration that fueled me – I was looking for concrete answers regarding what constitutes literary merit, and I wanted proof that I was improving. I wasn’t happy with the loose, “everything has merit – its art” attitude. I wanted to approach writing like dance – technical proficiency as the path to artistic freedom. (And I believe still, theoretically, technical proficiency is important). I wanted rules to follow, and measurable results. I expected more from my teachers than they were willing to give. Actually – I wanted more than they had the capacity to give, considering the nature of the beast. I was also wrestling with an avalanche of emotional issues (separation pains, identity crisis, self-doubt – just to name a few) which did not put me the mood to roll with the literary punches. Made me an annoying student, I think.

 

Now – I’ve gone to Lesley for my third term. Different story. I wasn’t anxious. In fact, if anything, I wasn’t in the mood to go – other things were demanding my emotional energy and I wasn’t up for another challenge of any sort. But, I dragged myself to the residency thinking it might just be a one-year slump. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a break from school – all the reading and writing wears you down.

 

But as expected, the residency pumped me up, helping me redefine my artistic perspective and it served to help me gain a deeper understanding of the process of learning to write. I’ve finally accepted that there are no concrete answers and no professor can pinpoint what elements are necessary, or what techniques can be honed to create a piece that constitutes literary merit. It is just something you feel – like jazz music. Someone once asked Benny Goodman what jazz was, and he answered, “If you gotta ask, you ain’t got it.” I think that applies to literary writing too.    

 

But, while definitions are fleeting, I believe that the combination of readings, seminars, exercises, workshops and critical annotations combine to leave an impact that takes the place of the more linear learning approach one uses to study other things, like law . . . or dance. While no one thing seems to provide answers you can put into words, I think the answers we seek are absorbed and processed with a silent poignancy. We student’s don’t realize we are learning, but we are – and as result, we’re impeccably changed as readers and writers.   

 

I felt a deeper understanding in all of the classes this time. I was less impressed for surface reasons, and at the same time, more impressed for deeper reasons, when guest authors did their readings. I also believe I had more insight to offer my peers in the workshop process (and several teachers and students thanked me for my contributions, so I don’t think I am off in this estimation). All in all, I felt like a writer – a potentially good writer, for the first time ever.

 

This does not mean that I didn’t wrestle with my normal bout of insecurity or frustration. Unfortunately, academia has a way of bringing me to my knees. I have childhood baggage to thank for that.

 

I am very appreciative of my current mentor. She is a strongly opinionated, intimidating, black intellectual – as a writer she has received critical acclaim and won several literary awards for her book, “The Good Negress.”  She tends to write about social issues and black heritage. She is also a very focused teacher, which is why I campaigned to get her assigned as my mentor. A few of my friends asked whom I was working with and when I told them, they grimaced and said, “Aren’t you intimidated? I’d be scared to death to work with her.”

 

But I am ultimately comfortable with A.J. I am drawn to anyone with passion for what they believe, and she is swamped in it. And I like her as a person too. She says funny things, like when she requests manuscripts she demands they are printed on two sides of the page. Even though it is against traditional format she says she likes it her way . . . for the trees . (Environmentally conscious? We will get along fine.)
 
She saw me crossing campus to attend a seminar and I held the door for her because her hands were full of papers. She asked me where I was going. I said,
“To the seminar, Short Story as Portraiture.” 
She made a face and said, “Yea . . . don’t ever do that.”

 

Ha. I knew it was not an insult to the teacher giving that particular seminar, but more that she doesn’t feel portraiture serves as soul purpose for a story. It doesn’t matter if I agree or not, – I just love that she feels strongly about her art and has her own truths and she is not afraid to voice them to her students.

 

For lots of reasons, I really like her.

 

But one thing occurred that shook me this residency. (There is always something.) A huge part of the learning process, at least half of our time in residency is devoted to it, is workshopping our pieces – stories or novel excerpts the students have written. We are divided into large and small groups of 8 and 4 respectively, and in these groups, assisted by our mentors, each piece is given one to 1 ½ hours of attention. We discuss writing techniques, storyline, and how we, as readers,  perceive the work. Discussion ensues in an attempt to give the author insight and to help define ways to improve the work. It is a very important element to developing your craft.

 

In our large workshop, a great deal of time was spent on the first manuscript – a piece that had some evident technical writing flaws as well as some character issues. A.J. seemed to use this piece as a prime example for teaching us some major concepts, and as such, we spent a great deal of time on it. My piece was to be workshopped next, and because of time management (or lack of time management), we only had 25 minutes to spend on my story – the story about the tree. Because it was a theme-oriented piece (Derrick’s View isn’t about a tree at all, but about how artistic individuals see the world differently from those who see things more literally) the workshop was a bit “off”. The students wanted to take the story literally and struggled to understand what I was attempting to say. They thought the man was crazy until the end. I pointed out that their perceptions about the piece were exactly what I intended – that I was very deliberate in setting every line – I wanted to send a message that was not literal – more subtle. As such, since I was successful at accomplishing what I wanted to do, and since this wasn’t satisfying to the reader, then the piece must be a failure. A.J. hated this attitude. She said there are no failures – but I think if your concept sucks, that can be considered a flop, don’t you?

 

She then said, “The problem with you is you have good writing disease. You are such a good writer that it hides all the deeper problems underneath. People don’t see what is wrong when they read your work.”

 

Now this was difficult for me to wrap my mind around. On the one hand, my mentor was saying I am a very good writer – I’ve been dying for someone, anyone who knows what they are looking at, to say that particular thing to me. On the other hand, her comment implies there are deeper issues – problems – in my work. I asked her to define what those deeper problems are.
She said, “It is different for every story, there are never clear cut issues.”

 

I asked how my good writing hid my flaws, and I wanted to know if everyone knew there were problems or if it was something only a more sophisticated reader would notice. She couldn’t really answer me. She just kept saying my problem was I had “good-writer-itus.”

 

That night at dinner one of my workshop peers said, “I think you were jipped today. I bet we return to your piece tomorrow because we really didn’t discuss it all that much. You deserve time.”
 I told her I didn’t mind that we breezed over the story- but personally, I did feel as if the story lacked something, for why else would the teacher chose notl to talk much about it?

The next few days, we continued to workshop pieces, and A.J. had plenty to say about everyone’s work. But then, as we came to the conclusion of the small workshops, she skipped me and took students out of the set order. And don’t you know that time was mismanaged again and we ended up with only 20 minutes left with two pieces left to critique. One was a two-paragraph submission from a senior, and the other was my story, Impressions,– some 7 pages. Hummmm……… Since 20 minutes isn’t long enough to critique anything in depth, I volunteered to be skipped. I said, ” I can learn from all the conversation, lets just go on with Diane’s work.” And we did.

 

A.J. concluded the session by saying, “I’m taking you up on your offer to skip you because your story is not a part of your thesis anyway (Remember, I am writing my dance book for my thesis) and I only like to work on pieces that a student is truly invested in.”

 

This bothered me. For one thing, I wasn’t really workshopped at all this residency, and I know that is vital to improving. This is silence, and as I made clear before, silence unnerves me.  For another, I didn’t like the idea that my mentor thought I wasn’t invested in my work.

 

The next day, we had a private meeting to prepare my 6 months learning contract . I pointed out to her that I sent in a story rather than a book submission because my previous mentors suggested I do so,  I was disappointed that my work was being dismissed. Heck, I was following professional recommendations – had she asked for portions of my book, I’d have sent it . I did e-mail her in advance to discuss my submission.

I also felt that whatever problems I have in my writing are probably across the board, and they would reveal themselves in a short story or my book. As such, I felt it was important to review my work no mater what I sent in, and what I learn from any workshop could be applied to my bigger project. (And heck, I might want some short stories to send to literary competitions or something so discussing them would help me a great deal.) I made it clear that I didn’t want to just have teachers hold my hand and help me doctor a single project so I graduate with a passable book. Heck with writing a book at school. I want an MFA to learn to write better. I know some MFA’s discourage book projects all together with the belief that more is learned from writing short stories. If that’s true, my submitting stories is an imporatant learning opportunity – which is why I do it.

 
Then I told her that just because I wrote a short story during the two-week break it  and didn’t labor over it for months, didn’t mean I wasn’t invested in the piece. Actually, I am rather prolific and I can write a story about anything with a moments notice. It doesn’t mean I don’t struggle to write the story well. It is just my process. I don’t have to labor over creating a story – they just come to me – but developing the idea once it is set down is my struggle.

 

She pretty much ignored everything I said. She said, “Are you aware that the people in this program spend months on the pieces they send, and that in many cases, they have worked with other teachers on it too?”

 

I pointed out that that was a bit confusing, considering the pieces had some obvious flaws, everything from week characterization to poor sentence construction. The thing is, I can see their flaws like huge gaping smudges on a paper. My flaws, however, are hard for me to see, and I want help with that. I feel blind to my own weaknesses and this makes me feel horrible. Inadequate. I can’t fix what I don’t see.

 

She said, “I bet it drives you crazy to read all these manuscripts where many students can’t even construct a sentence well – when they are missing basic fiction elements. You mastered that stuff ages ago. ”

 

I agreed that it did perplex me. Again, I pointed out that I wanted help to see the “serious” problems underscoring my good writing, and as things were going, I felt blind – frustrated. And if I was such a good writer, why didn’t I get into this program on the first try? Why were these other writers with basic writing skills lacking, welcomed so warmly. What did they have that I didn’t have?

She said, “That is a good question to ask.”

 

I was thinking, what does she mean? That it is a good question to ask myself, or a good question for the staff to ask the powers that be? I kept trying to reroute the conversation to what elements my work might be lacking – the stuff that left a more poignant resonance behind. But we never seemed to talk about that. The thing is, I am left feeling like something is wrong with my work – but no one wants to tell me what that is.

 

She asked me to send her my entire book – rewritten in it’s original format (I told her I wrote it all in 1^st person, but I was in the process of changing it back again and adding other elements – flashbacks and a serious of conversations with a therapist to make it stronger.)
 
She said, “Fix it and sent it to me.” – She  would sit on it awhile. Then, she told me to finish the entire story immediately afterwards (That is at least 150 more pages in the next two months), because without a finished product, we can’t begin the revision process (which is her specialty).
I said, “Will do” . . . but I was shitting bricks at the thought.

 

In the end, I don’t know what I think or how I feel about my meeting or the residency experience.

A.J. asked me on the last day, “What have you learned from our time together.”

 

I said, “Well, most of what we discussed about the other writers work in workshop is stuff that doesn’t apply to me. I don’t do the things they are doing wrong. So I guess, what I have learned is that I have good instincts, even if I don’t know what I’m doing.”

 

She smiled and said, “That’s good.”

 

Is it? Is it good to leave only knowing you were on the right path by coincidence or accident? With no new applicable knowledge? I’m not sure.

 

So, I didn’t get workshopped. I was told I’m a good writer and that is my problem. I don’t know what that means and as you can imagine, it drives me crazy.

 

And as result, I wrote my little blog about how I feel that what people don’t say is so much more difficult to process than what they do say.  I guess it is hard to understand where I’m coming from, and yet, when you are someone who hangs desperately to evidence of faith or understanding, silence is frustrating.

 

So, now I am buried in my book. I’m determined to finish this sucker and get it out of my head and into my professor’s hands. Let her wade through all that good writing to discover the deeper problems underneath and point them out so I can fix them. Or not.  I feel on fire now. Determined to get finished with school and move on to less obscure elements regarding fiction. This literary world is like trying to contain sand in a colander.  Since I’ve come to the conclusion that there are no answers here, I want to stop seeking them altogether and just write what I want without second-guessing myself at every turn.

 

 I feel, sometimes, like a good writer – maybe so good that I was skipped because my work wasn’t flawed enough to require intense attention. And there are no obvious weaknesses to use as a springboard for talking about technique with the group. My work is too close to what we are striving to do so it doesn’t demand the reflection every other person’s work in the program is getting. Perhaps, I am harder to teach because I am advanced.

 

But I also feel, sometimes, like a horrible writer. Maybe so horrible that I was skipped because my work has so little merit that it isn’t worth any attention at all. It might be so filled with weaknesses that a teacher doesn’t know where to begin. So they ignore it all together.  I am impossible to teach because I am so far from what is accceptable in the literary world that it is easier to dismiss me altogether.

 

That’s it. I feel DISMISSED. And this is impossible to comprehend in an MFA that is designed to help everyone meet their own potential. 

 

I swing between these two drastic poles – ultra confident – ultra intimidated.  

 

Art is painful. Writing is painful. And doing so without any validation that you are on the right course (or wrong) is painful.

 

This has been a long letter, and I have TONS work to do. I will write about something more fun next time. Adieu.

I am in Boston for my third MFA residency. Strangely, I am not in the mood. I am feeling low – not in the mood to think or work or be participatory. That isn’t like me.

 

Tonight, we had a welcome event. There are 26 incoming freshmen. We heard Kudos of the staff and students, announcements, and everyone got reacquainted. It is lovely seeing the returning students – catching up. I spent some time with my mentor from last term, Laurie. I brought her a gift. I found a wall hanging in an art gallery that is quirky and different—I don’t know, it isn’t something I’d buy anyone else, but it suits her. It’s a shoe, all gaudily decorated with a cutout of Elvis – one of his movies the featured theme. Her last novel was titled “Before Elvis there was Nothing” so this art has meaning. (She can hang it on the wall of her house where before, there was nothing) I wrote her a nice thank-you note. Frankly, it is a conversation piece, sort of odd, but then, so is her surreal writing. I suppose she’ll understand the sentiment behind the offering. I am grateful for all the time and attention she devoted to me these past six months and I just wanted to express it.

 

I met with my new professor, AJ. She is a demanding, professional sort of teacher and I am very excited to work with her. A few of the students asked who I was working with and when they heard it was her, they lifted their eyebrows and said, “Eeek. She is so intimidating.” She is, and yet, I’m looking forward to the experience.

 

I hunted down my first mentor, Bill to say hello too. This was difficult due to past discomfort between us – which I attribute to my total insanity and a collection of circumstances that served to make me crazy last residency. I have great respect for this man, and if anything, I felt shame approaching him, because rather than honor and trust him, I questioned his commitment to working with me last term (due to outside influences, rumor, and my own frustration). Actually, I didn’t actually complain about him, but about a student in my group, but it came across as my being disappointed in his mentorship.  I don’t want to go into it.  I will be working with him this week in the large group workshops. My goal is to “fix” what I broke. It means the world to me that I do. I just don’t know how to go about it gracefully.    Perhaps that is why I’m feeling low. It eats me up to be out of sorts with people that are important to me.

 

I listened to two readings tonight, a fiction writer and a poet. I was unmoved. This in not to imply that the writers were not good – only an affirmation of my uninspired state.  Perhaps it’s because I got up a 5AM this morning to get to the airport and I’m tired. Or maybe it’s the glass of wine I had after the session to relax. I don’t know. Is there such a thing as a mid-way academic slump? I could be the poster child for that. My roommate gets here tomorrow. I am glad to be alone tonight – it helps me to diffuse and transition from home life to student.

 

I think I need to sleep. First, I’ll read. Then, with hope, I’ll dream. I’ll order up a nice, positive dream to jump start my engine. For someone who is usually on fire, I feel like my pilot light has gone out.

 

I think, the reason this residency is trying for me is because I have no one to share it with. Family members, friends, indulge my talking about writing, but only to be polite.  This has become a solitary endeavor. I feel on my own in my pursuits nowadays.

Makes me low.

Friday, I will be returning to Boston for my third MFA residency. I will be rooming with my friend, Sue, again and I look forward to hanging out with another fond friend, Alice. We’ve become comrades in writing arms. I enjoy catching up on their progress (and their lives). We share a similar sense of humor and all three of us are quite down to earth when it comes to processing the educational experience. Makes for some fun conversation at mealtimes.

 

Last time, I wrote freely about all I was feeling and experiencing. Later, I found my posts were passed on to some of the teachers I’d been discussing, which made for some discomfort on my part. Not that I’ve expressed anything but respect for the instructors in the program – but still, it’s easier being an “invisible” student in the crowd then the annoying (if not mildly amusing) student analyzing and cataloging the professor’s motivations, style and personalities. Considering this, I’ve wondered if I should blog about the experience this time. Perhaps it’s a bad idea to be open and honest about your perceptions on life when you can’t control the audience or their reaction to it. But then again, perhaps the only thing wrong with doing so is that we are trained by social constraints to be “polite” and address life on a surface level. What is wrong with honesty, anyway, if it is wrapped up in good intentions?

 

Then again, what is the point of writing about writing? Who cares about one “beginner” writer’s view of the MFA experience?

 

The thing is, I believe someone might. I have a friend or two who aspire to write – friends who are sincerely interested in my journey into this new territory. They may even decide to follow suit and try this MFA thing someday if it turns out to be a significant element in my development.  Frankly, even my dance buddies find my plunge into the cold sea of a new career (or hobby or whatever you want to call it) interesting. I think the parallels between dance and writing are striking. In some ways, when I talk about my struggles to write, I am preaching to my former dance students, showing them by example how to make a commitment to their art. Learning to master a skill is difficult – on the ego, the heart, the mind. Perhaps my willingness to put myself on the line will inspire others to tackle a dream from the bottom up – to do whatever it takes to build a foundation for their aspirations. I’ve always tried to teach my students to address their weaknesses rather than hide behind what they naturally do well. Lay down your ego and conceit and dig in to broaden you gift! Learn what you don’t know, like it or not, cause, while it is disheartening at times, you’ll be stronger for it in the end! Whether or not this lesson will ever sink into their thick little heads is another matter altogether, but it’s my nature to harp on what I believe.

 

As such, I will be writing about my MFA residency again, assuming the spirit moves me to do so. My writing friends will then be able to picture what such a journey is all about. Perhaps they will learn along with me, so they won’t have to go through the grueling process themselves. If nothing else, they will have a picture of me sitting in those lectures trying to grasp that elusive thing that separates good writing from bad. The idea of me scratching my head with a furrowed brow will make them smile.

 

I received my Faculty Mentor evaluation this week. It was very positive. Lovely. I was called “a most eager and dedicated student” . . . and, “a most prolific writer” as well. I write “clear, incisive and insightful annotations with great skill and forthrightness.” (Stand back so I can take a bow). But I also couldn’t help but chuckle at one line. “As such, Ginny is both challenging and a pleasure to work with, and she has made great strides in the novel this semester.”

 

Hummm. I am “challenging” to work with? These MFA teachers are such wonderful writers, they are very like word masters. They can say what they want in perfectly accurate, subtle ways. So, the way I see it, this innocent line really means I’m a big, fat pain. I guess you can say, I keep them on their toes – but since they are not dancers, being on their toes is uncomfortable, if not annoying. I am a “challenging” student. Shit. Don’t get me wrong, to be challenging is not a bad thing. But it can exhaust a teacher who isn’t in the mood – sometimes going through the motions of teaching is all you have the time or interest for. It would be nice if I were a student they enjoyed working with, rather than a test of their teaching efficiency.

 

Well, if I could be someone else rather than who I am, I’d try it. I get pretty tired of myself. Unfortunately, I don’t blend in as well as I should in certain elements. But for the record, my intentions this term are to listen quietly, ask only necessary questions, and to avoid coming across as “challenging”. Yep, I wanna be one of those invisible students who are more brain than mouth, just attendees that smile and do as they are told, then go home and write something decent as proof that they were listening.  

 

Can this be accomplished? My husband sincerely doubts it. He laughs at me when I insist I won’t be noticed this term. “That’ll be the day,” he says.

Well, just you wait and see, bud. I can be a face in the crowd too.

 

But for all I plan to be subtle at the residency, for my friends I feel compelled to blog the highlights about the educational experience. Some things are important to share, and events that create personal growth and change qualify.  Education – a heightened understanding – changes a person in subtle ways.

 

Now, I have homework to do to prepare for my jaunt into MFA obscurity. My next mentor is a bull, already pawing the earth and preparing to charge. She is on a “recognizing the elements that make strong scene” kick this term and I think our manuscripts are red capes flashing in the arena. She has her horns dipped, ready to charge. I need to be prepared for the dance I’ll be doing when she comes at me.

 

Do I need to tell you how much I look forward to it?  

P.S. For those of you who love to read, get the short story “We Didn’t” by Stuart Dybek. It is one of the pieces I had to read for this residency and I thought it was exquisite. Really. Loved it. Man-o-man, I wish I could write like that! Maybe I was drawn in because this one is a very sexy story – but its poignant too.  Everyone who loves literature should read it.
And if you enjoy short stories, The Best American Short Stories of the Century, edited by John Updike is a fantastic read. I was assigned one story in this thick book, but found myself reading quite a few, compelled to read “just one more” even though I had tons of other required reading to do. The book is a compilation of some of the best stories ever written. Exposure to this kind of literature isn’t just entertaining. It makes you think and feel. Get a used copy at Amazon. Read it in spurts when you don’t want the commitement of an entire novel, but you want to feel touched by a tale. I will read the entire thing in time- a story always at my fingertips when I want to be moved. Only wish I had time to wade through it now. Unfortunately, this one goes on my pile of “Books I’m determined to read when school is over” stack. It’s one daunting (but much honored) tower, let me tell you.
Must get some work done. Bye.       

Often, people ask me what’s happened with my book.
About three years ago, I finished my first historical novel, Sister’s of Fate (or Crossing Hearts – it has had the distinction of owning two names dependant upon the slant I wanted to give the book for marketing reasons).  A few people badgered me into letting them read the manuscript. Most were impressed, or so they pretended. A few readers were not friends or family, and they had wonderful things to say – this is nice because it gives me a slight confidence boost.

Anyway, there is a funny twinge to inquiries, because many people assume I left dance to write. The fact that I was very successful with dance implies a pressure to be successful with writing too. Anyway, they say, “When is your book going to get published?”

Interesting question.

 

Here is the rundown. I sent query letters to about 40 agents attempting to get someone to take on this novel to try to sell it to a publisher. Of those, two asked for sample chapters. Of those two, one asked for the entire manuscript. She later returned it (I don’t know if it was read fully or not) saying it would be a hard sell due to certain elements of the book – primarily that one character is handicapped. I have a child with downs syndrome in the book, and since I was promoting it as a “Romance novel” that didn’t fly. I guess characters with handicaps kill romance. Not for me – but for others.

 

I had one, and only one, publisher see my book. I won an auction that promised a publisher would read the entire manuscript and give a critique immediately – this is valuable because it promised the book would avoid the “slush pile” where books sit for months or years to only be glanced at by a low-level reader. It’s a long shot that the publisher will ever see it when it comes from this generic pile.  In my case, the publisher didn’t do as promised and she kept my book under her desk for two years. Then, I got a short two-paragraph note that said she doesn’t handle historicals – and she thought my main character wasn’t as nice as she should be. Ha. My character, Hazel, isn’t nice all the time. Do you know anyone, realistically, who is? 

 

The turn around time when sending out queries is sometimes six months, meaning this getting your book looked at is a painfully slow process. In the mean time, my book won six contests and received some very nice commentary from judges, including some established authors. More confidence building. During this time, I began my second historical, Touched by Fate, and a contemporary erotic book (The Gift) and I toyed with shorter pieces. Writing was so much fun when I let my fingers follow my inspiration.

 

Then, one day, I decided to stop trying to be published, cold turkey and go to school to learn more about this writing business. This is very like me. Here is proof.

 

When I was young, I knew I wanted to dance. I wanted to write too, but dance is an all consuming, youth oriented art, so that seemed more pressing. I was in love with my high school sweetheart, Joe Caron. He asked me to marry him my senior year (I graduated early, so I was really just a junior with lots of credits.) I seriously thought about it, because, as I stated – I was young and in love.  If I was going to stay with him in Rhode Island, I had to consider a career, and we determined together that what I should do was open a dance studio. We looked at space in strip malls, and found one not far from his father’s jewelry store that was a reasonable rent and near schools and homes. I started putting together a modest business plan – working out how much money we would need and how I would attract students. This was not a long shot for us, because when I was sixteen I started teaching independently. I went to the area YMCA’s and started classes of my own and I even taught students in a studio in my home. I already had a name as a local dance teacher so opening a studio was the next step.

 

One day, in the midst of all this, I was watching TV – a program on PBS. It was the Martha Graham Dance Company in concert. I remember being fascinated and thinking, “What the heck is this they are doing?” Until then, I had been exposed to primarily, corny dance school training. I knew ballet, tap and jazz and I watched old musicals and went to Broadway style shows, but I had never seen a modern company in concert.

 

I was so disturbed by that program, because I considered myself a dancer, and yet it was clear I didn’t have a clue about sophisticated dance styles. The next day, I wrote the Martha Graham Company and got information. I signed up for a summer intensive in NYC. In the meantime, I went to “BrownUniversity”and signed up for modern classes. I was being trained in Limon technique – which was like learning another language for a kid with a dance school mentality. I didn’t like the classes – I felt physically stupid (that is when your body is alien to the movement) and I’d never danced in ways that were not “pretty” or obviously entertaining before. I was floored by the odd movement and unique methods of jumping or turning. It was just a bit over my naive dancer’s head. Yet, I hung in there and kept attending – complaining about it – hating it cause I was bad at it– yet knowing it was something I needed.

 

Then one day, I turned to my boyfriend and said, “I can’t open a studio. I have to move to New York.”

He said, “Why? I thought you loved me and we were going to start a life together?”

I explained that I did love him – but I just didn’t know enough about dance to stop learning now. I felt I would be a poor teacher – unfinished – if I opened a school at that time.

Because he understood I was a dancer first and a girlfriend second, he was supportive. We talked about moving to NY together. Of course, this didn’t work out, because I was burning to do something with my life, and he just wanted to be with me. Unbalanced motivation. We planned to stay a couple while apart for awhile, but I became consumed with dance and romance faded from my ultimate life plan at the time.

That (Joe) is another story.

 

The point is, I sensed that I needed to know more about my art, and I went on a quest to fill the gaps. It cost me in many ways. I made sacrifices. It was hard. The decision hurt. However, I’ve never thought it was a bad choice. Frankly, it wasn’t even a choice. I had to do what I had to do. I wasn’t motivated by logic or clear artistic goals. I just felt compelled to dive a bit deeper into this thing I loved.

 

Twelve years later, I left New York. What did I do? I opened a dinky neighborhood dance school, much to that utter amazement and shock of many of my fellow NY dancer friends. Man, they made fun of me.  Now, some may say I wasted those twelve years. I ended up right where I started. I might have opened that studio with Joe and done well, and with a twelve-year head start, avoided many years of financial destitution and hardship. Maybe that is true.

 

But honestly, I believe that the studio I had after New York is a far cry from the one I would have had if I “settled” as a young adult and relied on surface knowledge rather than more sound life experience. We are all just a result of our accumulated experiences, and so to, is the business we run, should that be the case. I had such a deep and thoroughly understanding of dance when I finally opened my doors to students that success was pretty much assured. (What I didn’t have was business acumen, and big surprise, I went and got a degree in business to fill in the gaps. Voila, success.)  But twelve years after a studio was first a glimmer in my eye, I had contacts in the dance world, varied and intense training to rely on, and most importantly of all – CONFIDENCE. I had authority –  I believed I deserved respect because of all I did in my quest to learn the art of dance.  (This is not to discredit the input of my spouse in the dance school business, by the way – I am just talking about dance and the studio as it pertained to my career journey.)
 

So – now let’s turn to writing. I completed some books. They are rather good books in the commercial and entertaining vein. I had no doubt I wouldn’t break into the romance writing biz if I buckled down and got determined.  But was my book good writing? That is questionable. Then there was the fact that whenever I picked up a classic book to read, I felt a bit like I did at 18 when I saw that Martha Graham concert. It fascinated me, but I didn’t really understand it. It was over my naive literary head. So, since this disturbed me, I went to some non-romance writing seminars at colleges and such. I went to a seminar at Eckerd College, a forerunner to an MFA (It was not unlike my going toBrown University to study Limon modern or going to NY to take the Graham intensive when I was 17.) All this did was make it clear to me how much I didn’t know about literature and writing. This left me even more unsettled. And feeling more inadequate.

 

So suddenly, I announced I wanted to go to school for a masters in fiction. My husband was like, “Why? You write well. Your books are good and the only reason they are not published is you haven’t given them a chance. You don’t need  a degree.”

 

But I did need it. I felt the need, inside. Training is paramount to growth. I needed a better understanding of the ART of writing (not just the commercial, fun surface stuff) and I needed the confidence that comes with deeper understanding. So I began applying to low residency programs and got in one by the skin of my naive, clueless teeth. It was a stroke of luck (and thanks to the kindness of one professor who saw potential in my mess of an application).

 

For one year, I have been laboring in this program. It is hard. It isn’t even fun – in the same way that studying modern dance wasn’t fun for me. You see, I wanted to be a jazz dancer, but I wanted to be a GOOD jazz dancer, and I needed a broader foundation for that which meant I had to take classical dance classes.  It was like eating my vegetables to be healthy.  Direct comparison – I wanted to be a romance writer, but I wanted to be a GOOD romance writer, so I needed a broader foundation for that, which meant studying classical literature.  

 

I am inundated with classical literature now. (Ha – I am reading Moby Dick for the residency and when Mark saw it, he rolled his eyes playfully and said, “You won’t like that as much as you think. It isn’t a porno book about a hugely hung guy like you might be hoping.” ). . . .Very funny. 

 

I have a year of school to go. I am slaving over writing a book about dance now, because dance is real to me. I think I see all of life through rose-colored romantic eyes, EXCEPT for when I consider dance. I’m down to earth and real regarding that subject. I have been too involved and I have too many strong emotional ties to gloss over dance lightly. So that is why my “literary thesis project” is a dance novel.  I just couldn’t write a historical in school, because I would fill it with adventure and sex and laughter – all of which makes for rousing commercial fiction, but those elements knock it out of the literary vein. Literary books are like modern dance to me, and I am still the jazz dancer in the studio gritting her teeth and struggling with the technique to build a broader foundation for her art. It makes me feel inadequate sometimes. Who am I kidding – lots of the time. I’m not as good at literary writing as I would hope. I am more suited to writing romance and adventure or humor. But that is nothing to be ashamed of. I don’t admire modern dancers more than jazz dancers, nor do I admire literary writers more than commercial writers. In fact, by really understanding art on many levels, the magic power of sudo-intellectual importance given the classical versions of art diminishes. The genre you thrive in is all a matter of style, not a determination of talent or brilliance.

 

When school is over for me next summer, what will happen? I will no doubt go back to writing historicals. So, one may say this jaunt into a masters program is a waste of time because I will end up exactly where I began (like opening a dance studio). But I disagree. The goal is not to change who I am and what I love by influencing my nature with sophisticated literature. Won’t happen. But I’m convinced that the historicals I write after getting a sound writer’s education will be far superior to those I would have written without it. And like my dance school – I may prove remarkably successful later because of what I was willing to do to gain a broader understanding in this art. It isn’t an easy thing to do – it’s costly and eats up my time. It’s hard on the ego and I feel guilty taking up the resources from my family because I could have kept writing without this education and even probably sold some books. Yet – I had to get that MFA. Had to.

 

I have been reading manuscripts of students that are committed  100% to literary writing. I am not all that impressed – snore. And I have read manuscripts from writers who are totally focused on commercial markets. I am not impressed with them either – ho hum, corny. I can’t help but feel that my natural inclination to write commercial novels combined with a serious education and a deeper understanding of literature, will allow me to strike a balance that will make me a stronger, more grounded writer. One that will find loyal readers. Perhaps the accumulation of my experiences will lead to books that deserve room on the shelves at Barnes N Nobel.

At least, that is the plan.        

 

And if not, well, I justify this endeavor by reminding myself I ‘ll have a degree that allows me to teach. Not that I’d use it in lue of writing– I wouldn’t teach without professional experience. That is like dance too. I don’t want to be a surface person faking it in the art world. I want to be the real McCoy.

 

If you recall, this blog began with the question I am often asked, “When will you get your novel published?”

The answer. “Who knows. But not until I get out of school, that’s for sure.”

 

The fact is, I stopped sending out queries. I stopped entering contests (except for an occasional literary contest with a short story). I am letting my novels collect dust under my bed. They are not forgotten or forsaken. They are lying dormant for the winter to pass. When I am finished with school, it will be a literary spring for me. I will take them out and rewrite them with all the passion and true skill they deserve. Then, when I know I have written a historical novel to the very best of my ability, I will send it out. I will send it out over and over and over until someone dares to read it and eventually publish it. I will use the weight of my MFA, and anything else I’ve done, to approach this business with enough authority to deserve an agent’s or publisher’s attention.

I’ll feel like a writer because I’ll be one. I won’t be faking it.

 

In the meantime, I watch friend’s faces when they ask about my book. They feel badly for me– they think I’m unsuccessful because Crossing Hearts isn’t on the shelves of Barnes N Nobel now, an entire three years after it was written. Poor Ginny – she wasted all that time writing a bad book. She left dance to be something else, and it isn’t happening. At least, that’s what it looks like on the surface. But the fact is, I am someone who always focuses on what is under the surface. Important when it comes to friends, life, art or anything else that touches your life on a significant level.

We all manuver our lives motivated by different influences. One thing works for me every time. Something has to feel right to be right.When it feels right, hold on.

 

 

I have been busy the last few days finishing a second story for my critique group  for the upcoming residency. It is harder than one can imagine putting a story together and making all the pieces fit. Then there is the task of smoothing the writing, nailing characters, and trying to leave some kind of impression on a reader.

Anyway, I worked on this one, and last night gave it to my daughter, her boyfriend and my husband to read. I thought I’d have my own little critique group first, then rewrite it before sending it in today (due date.) My daughter liked it. Her boyfriend played it safe and nodded a lot. (Smart fellow) My husband looked like he was sucking a lemon as he read it, his face all controted and his head jerking back like my words were slapping him silly.  I chuckled, thinking, “Wouldn’t that go over well if I read manuscripts like that at my residency, acting physically sick by awkward sentences or concepts that didn’t sound perfect to me.” Ha. Wouldn’t that make me everyone’s best friend.

We had a rowsing conversation about the story and they pointed out a few things that didn’t gel for them. For all that my husband acted as if reading the thing was painful, he didn’t slaughter it. Hearing their impressions helped. I made some minor changes this morning that I think improved the story greatly. As for my husband . . . well . . . I made fun of his lack of diplomacy. I’m used to him. 

Anyway, this is my second “literary” story (for this month). I only post it on the off chance that some friend might want to read it. I will no doubt make reference to it later, especially when I write about my residency and how my peers critique the work, so in the interest of following this endless diatribe about my life, it may prove pertinent.   

I am relieved to be finished. Now, I only have to read a billion words to be ready for Boston. Sigh. But in a few days this will include everyone else’s manuscripts. Always interesting to see how the other camps are doing…

Anyway, here it is, Ginny’s story de jour . . .  Enjoy!

DERRICK’S VIEW

     Most people believed the best thing about Grandfather’s quaint cabin by the lake was the view. 

      Derrick just didn’t see it. He didn’t see fifty feet of lush grass sloped gently to a humble dock where a hand-built canoe lay wedged upside down on blocks, ready to use at whim. He didn’t see the lake beyond, a serene pool of water that reflected the afternoon sun as if it were a solar panel. In the evenings, the water supposedly captured colors. The vibrant orange and red of the sky looked almost as if someone turned the color button up high on a TV set, distorting the picture until it looked more like a page in a child’s coloring book than a realistic landscape on the nature channel. 

      He didn’t see what was beyond the lake either. Mountains. At times, a crisp, clear green reminding observers that life extends far beyond their own backyard. At other times, a misty gray, fading into the sky as if the many layers of hill and valley had been drawn with disappearing ink. In winter, they said snow made the view look as if it were drawn in charcoal, all muted shades of black, gray and white. In fall, the mountains were reminiscent of an autumn tickertape parade. Dots of amber confetti filtered from the sky from trees that were no more than wedges of color so thick it looked as if they were slapped on with a putty knife. God had used George Seurat’s technique when painting this particular landscape.

    When Grandfather passed away and left the cabin to his two grandchildren, everyone assumed he was hoping they’d carry on the family tradition of sitting on the porch to stare at the view. Beth, always the more traditional of the two, did exactly this.

     When she came home, she called her brother and said, “Derrick, since you have no place to go, I think you should live in the cabin for awhile. You could use the rest and the environment is inspiring. It’ll get you out of your slump.”

      She’d been worried about her brother’s mental state every since his wife had left him for the predictable, upstanding accountant. Beth was convinced the peace and solitude of the cabin would heal Derrick’s depression and, with hope, jump-start his flagging career.

    Derrick took her advice and moved into the cabin for a season. However, as it turns out, he didn’t sit on the porch to enjoy the view.  How could a person gaze at mountains when they couldn’t see past the tree?

     Grandfather had planted a nice, straight maple tree over fifty years prior. At one time, it provided shade and lured squirrels into the yard to entertain watchers with their antics, but now it had turned into a huge and gnarly obstruction, its branches reaching outward as if it were attempting to hug the very ambiance of the cabin. Perhaps, to swallow it.

      “You sound so agitated,” Beth said on the phone. “Relax. Pour yourself a drink and look at the view.”

     “I can’t. Grandfather’s tree is in the way,” he snapped.

     “Come on, that tree doesn’t block the view. You aren’t even trying to feel better.”

     She had a point. The tree stood far to the left of the yard, but even so, Derrick’s eyes kept wandering to it. The things he could touch always commanded his attention, while less tangible objects floating in the distance left him unmoved.

     “The tree bothers me.”

      “Like Mom’s bike bothered you, when you took it apart in high school?”

      “Yes.”

      Beth’s exasperated sigh contradicted her upbeat tone.  “Just don’t look at it,” she said. “Do you want me to visit?”

     “No. I just hate the tree.”

     “No, you love the tree.”

      “I hate everything I love,” Derrick pointed out.

      “So the tree isn’t really your problem.”

      “No, the tree isn’t my problem.”

     “So, you can leave it alone.”

     “I think so.”

     “Call me tomorrow.”

     “Don’t I always.”

      The problem was, the tree was harder to ignore than many of the things that bothered him, like his wife’s antique dining room chairs, handed down from her great aunt. She’d been furious when he sawed the legs off those chairs, as if he’d done it on purpose. Derrick felt it should have been obvious he didn’t have a choice. The chairs would’ve bothered him eternally had he not done something about the feeling they stirred within him. A wife should understand a thing like that.

      Determined not to disappoint his sister in the same way, he forced his attention elsewhere to avoid staring at the engrossing tree. This, unfortunately, wasn’t much help, because once he looked away, the tree started talking to him. The maple was a loud tree, speaking to Derrick in a demanding tone every time he went outside.

    “The tree is talking to me,” he told his sister.

     “Trees don’t talk, Derrick.”

    “This one talks to me.”

     “Don’t answer.”

     “I won’t. But this is a loud tree.”

      “Ignore it and it will go away,”

      Derrick hung up the phone thinking that was a stupid comment. Trees don’t go away on their own. They just keep getting bigger, their roots embedding deeper into the soil, their branches filling the air above.  Eventually, a tree isn’t just in front of you. It spreads everywhere, a canapé of branches hovering above, the roots becoming a part of the very ground you stand on. If trees cold only bite down, they’d swallow you. 

     “This cabin would look nicer without that old maple,” he said to his sister on the phone.

     Her silence at the other end made it perfectly clear she didn’t agree. “Should I come down there?” she asked.

     “I’d rather you wouldn’t.”

     “O.K., but only if you promise to leave the tree alone. It’s been in the family for years.”

     “I’ll try,” he said.

     Beth was quiet on the other end of the line, but he could hear the impatient tapping of her manicured nails on some surface in her home.

    “I won’t touch the tree,” he said, knowing she wouldn’t hang up until he promised.      

    “Good. Now rest. Recharge. I’ll visit in the fall.”

      Derrick hung up the phone staring at the tree through the window. The fall was a long way away.

     He decided to stay inside, thinking it was best to avoid his Grandfather’s tree altogether. But then, the incessant hum of that tree started to reach him in the kitchen. He couldn’t cook dinner without the tree luring him into another disturbing ethical argument, one that would inevitably drag him to the window to stare again at the thick, twisted trunk filled with knots and burls.

    “Shhhhh…..” he whispered.

     The tree leered.

     Derrick began thinking of removing the tree, just to gain some peace, but knowing how this would disturb the family, he put thoughts of the drastic measure aside.

     He spent more time reading in the living room. Certainly, with this much space between them, the tree would stop its incessant flirting. But Derrick couldn’t focus on his book. The words on the page were like random grunts; senseless because his mind couldn’t string them together coherently while thinking that the book was once a tree too, each page made of pulp from a thick trunk. Did that particular tree talk too, or was it a nice, normal, silent tree? Invisible. There were, after all, lots of trees in the world, and Derrick wasn’t drawn to all of them. Perhaps the book had been the kind of tree that, while standing, one could easily dismiss. The vacant place left after it was removed might have gone unnoticed too. No one misses an unloved tree.

      Derrick wondered who would notice if he were to cut down Grandfather’s tree.    

      Everyone would notice.

      Grandfather bought this land when he was only nineteen. He cut dozens of trees down to clear the lot for the cabin. On a whim, he then planted a tree of his choice. Maple. One day he fell in love and carved a heart with his girlfriend’s initials into the bark. Unfortunately, when Grandmother moved into the cabin, she made him cut away the bark to remove the heart, for they were not her initials. In time, new bark grew over the offense like a scab over a wound. But it left a distorted mark, a scar to remind everyone a tattoo had been removed from the tree’s rough epidermis. That mark was a source of family jokes and family pride. Grandmother always got her way, and grandfather loved her enough to let her. They had a damaged tree to prove it.  

     While the children were young, the tree held a tire swing. After the kids grew and left home, the tire was replaced by a wooden swing for adults to sit upon while they gazed at the view. Over the years, the maple branches had been host to bird feeders, thermometers, hanging baskets of flowers, and other yard ornaments, as if mementos of family life kept creeping beyond the confines of the cabin, only to be caught in the branches before escaping the borders of the property.

       The tree was a part of this cabin. A part of Grandfather. When he died, they scattered his ashes all over the cabin grounds and at the mouth of the lake. It was a good bet to assume some of Grandfather blew to the base of the trunk. Derrick believed some of the old man seeped into the earth only to be sucked up by roots and then carried through sap-laden veins to every appendage of the living maple monument. His grandfather’s essence was in this tree.

      “Sit with me, boy,” he remembered the old man saying one day. Grandfather was sitting on his wooden swing, whittling a chess piece while watching Derrick mold playdough into little likenesses of animals.

       Derrick had been so engrossed with his project he ignored the request. Some voices are easier to tune out than others are. But grandfather always got through. He urged Derrick to join him on the bench. Playdough gave way to a lesson in whittling.

     “Where are grandfather’s chess pieces?” he asked his sister that night.

      “Mom has them.”

      “I don’t suppose she’d give them to me.”

      “She’d tell you to make your own.”

      “That’s not the point.”

      “Well, I wouldn’t recommend you ask for them, at least not until she gets over the fact that Grandfather left the cabin to you.”

      “Us,” he corrected, winding the phone cord around his finger like a coiled bandage.

     “He left the cabin to us both, but I think he meant it to be mostly for you. He understood you in a way none of the rest of us ever have,” Beth said.

    “He’d been disappointed if he knew I stopped working.”

    “I think he’d understand that things like this happen.”

    “Would he?”

    “We all do.”

    “Not mom and dad. Not my wife.”

    “Forget them for now. Wait until you feel better. Nothing good comes of conversations held when you’re depressed.”

     “Am I depressed?”

     “Haven’t you always been?”

     Derrick shrugged. “Grandfather called me ‘different'”.

     “Well, no one will argue that.”

     He hung up, noticing that every time he talked to his sister, the rumble of the tree got louder. He tried to think back to when the tree started taking to him. He recalled hearing a subtle wooden whisper when he was in college, but it was easy to ignore a tree that spoke to him in such hushed tones. He didn’t even mention it to the family, because he knew they’d dismiss the idea of a tree calling to their offbeat son. They didn’t know what went on in his head  . . . at least, not the way grandfather did.

     “The tree is driving me mad, Beth,” he complained to his sister.

     “Don’t do anything you can’t undo. You know it would be wrong to mess with grandfather’s tree,” she warned.   

     “I guess so.”  

      Derrick started spending time in the room furthest from the tree.  The Bedroom. He lay on the big, four-poster bed trying to think of anything but the tree, but still, it called to him. He couldn’t sleep.

     One day, a wind knocked a gnarly branch halfway off the trunk. Broken from the base, it swooped over to the house and brushed against Derrick’s window. Derrick might be able to avoid the tree’s incessant call, but the idea that it was making physical contact, actually reaching out to him, was simply too much to endure. He had to cut the tree down. Beth would simply have to understand he couldn’t live this way. Grandfather would have.

     Filled with guilt and regret, he went into the yard to inspect the tree. He wrapped his arms around the trunk amazed that they didn’t meet at the backside. It was a huge tree, full of memories. Full of life. Running calloused hands along the bark, he closed his eyes, feeling every curve and distorted bump on the surface. The tree was twisted, as if time and the wind had broken the tree’s bones, leaving it stooped and slightly curved like an old woman’s body. In fact, the tree reminded him of a woman. The scar at the upper trunk looked pinched and distressed, like his wife’s face those last few years they were together.

    “You remind me of my wife,” he said to the tree.

     A wind served to help the tree answer. It shuttered as if insulted.

     “But you remind me of Grandfather too.”

      This seemed to make the tree happier. It swayed gently.

      “Forgive me. You are simply too loud.”

       He went into grandfather’s workshop to get the chainsaw. He paused half way there and turned to the tree. “Why me? Why didn’t you talk to grandfather all those years?”

     The tree stood there silently, belligerently refusing to answer what Derrick assumed was a fair question.

      “Thanks for nothing.”

      He stomped into the workshop, angry at the tree for forcing him to do something he knew would cause him grief later. But it wasn’t as if he had a choice. He emerged moments later wearing goggles and work gloves, the engine of his weapon roaring. The deafening sound drowned out any inner conversation he might have about the value of the tree in his family’s estimation. Not that it would penetrate his purpose. History proved that once in motion, inertia kept Derrick going without food or sleep until the voice was quieted.

    He stared at the bulk of the wooden monstrosity wondering just how he should go about making it fall. He’d done this kind of thing before, but it would be just his luck to go about the deed wrong, so the tree ended up killing him. But not cutting it down would kill him too, he thought, so he’d take his chances.

    For fifteen minutes, high-speed metal tore at the smoldering wood. He made a deep wedge in the side until, eventually, a loud crack filled the air. The tree swayed as if fighting gravity and circumstance. Then, in slow motion, it tumbled, leaves showering the earth and lodging in the hair of the impassionate man who brought it down.

     Derrick leaned over the freshly cut stump to count the rings. The tree was 52 years old, give or take a ring. He took off his gloves to run his hands over the freshly cut surface, studying the tree, recapping its history and character in his mind. The tree was still talking to him, but it was no longer forging an argument. Now the two of them shared something more akin to a satisfactory discussion of purpose.

     It took several hours for Derrick to cut away the branches to make firewood. He stacked them neatly by the cabin, his leather gloves handling each piece with careless disinterest. Slowly, the tree dissolved; until all that was left was the huge trunk and the scattered leaves and sawdust covering the grass. 

      He stared a long time at the trunk. Absent of its appendages it looked not unlike a burnt Venus De Milo. Exhausted, both from the effort and the emotional release, Derrick went to bed dreaming of a woman, his wife, buried under the bark of that gnarly tree.     

     The next day, Derrick rented a tractor with an ominous grapple attachment, something resembling the Jaws of Life. He picked up the remains of the tree and moved it from sight. Dragging it to Grandfather’s workshop, he rested it upon two reinforced sawhorses, an open coffin for a maple corpse.

     Satisfied now, Derrick was able to ignore the tree. For months, it dried and cracked as the wood withered and aged, lying in the workshop like an embalmed corpse awaiting its funeral.

     “How are you? You aren’t still talking to Grandfather’s tree, are you?”  Beth said, the next time she called..

     “No, the tree isn’t bugging me as much as it did before.”

     “I’m glad. I knew the peace and quiet of the cabin would do you good. Do you think you might be ready to go back to work soon?”

     “Positively.”

      “Do you want me to come up there?”

     “I’d rather you didn’t.”

     “Alright. It’s been a crazy year, and since you sound better, I’ll wait. Maybe Christmas.”

     “That’ll be nice,” Derrick said, his sister’s voice, as always, triggering strong thoughts of the tree.

     “What have you been doing lately?”

      “Looking at the view. It’s beautiful.”

       Beth’s voice was filled with a smile. “I’m glad you’re noticing it now.”

       “Me too,” he said.

*     *     *

      Years later, a couple stood, eyebrows knitted as they stared at the maple

     “This one really talks to me,” said the wife.

      “I knew you’d like it. It’s a woman,” the husband said. “See the face in that scared area. It’s like she’s tortured or something.” 

    “Or angry. Makes me sad,” said the wife.

     “I think it’s cool. But look. From over here, it’s a happy old man.”

     The wife circled the piece, marveling at the spaulted colors in the wood. The statue was streaked with black, brown and white, areas of the bark left to add detail and design to the polished surface. “It looks different from every angle. Look at the little chess pieces at the base.”

     The husband tilted his head. “I like it more than his sculptures of the bored Victorian people on chairs with the legs missing. I think that’s supposed to mean something, but I can’t tell. It’s weird.”

    The wife hummed an agreement. “This guy’s different, that’s for sure. But with this piece, the longer you stare, the more you see.” 

     They gazed at the tree some more, images taking shape before their eyes as if a litany of concepts were hidden in the textured surface, revealed only to those with the patience to trust there could be more to a tree than the obvious.

     Other people looked casually at the maple and passed by, seeing only a statue of a woman. Or an old man. Or sometimes, just a polished lump of wood.  They walked by and gathered at the window beyond the exhibit where the seeded glass highlighted the gardens below, currently aflame with the early evening sunset.

    “Isn’t that a beautiful view,” said an older woman to her companion, easing onto a bench to enjoy the pretty sight.

    The couple, however, didn’t see it. They were too engrossed with the tree.

 

 

  

    

     

   

 

 

 

 

I got my final response for this term from my current mentor today. It was a very long and detailed assessment of my novel project, a true priceless gift, since this commentary is coming from someone whom I respect and admire. I’m grateful I’ve had a chance to work with someone so devoted to literature and teaching.  As always, she made me feel as if I am a good writer with serious potential – and that I’m finally tapping into it. She say’s I’m improving and I think she’s right. Heck, no one could put this much time and concentration into something and not improve, at least a little.

 

But she had some serious things to discuss with me regarding my novel’s POV. Six months ago, I changed from the third person to the first person, trying to make a smooth transition as I worked in some academic dance essays that were important to me – an unglamorous look at dance from an “after the fact” position. I consider them interesting and revealing regarding my character’s emotional state. But I have been frustrated beyond description with this book, because the new voice just doesn’t feel natural. And it didn’t fix the problem of making the essays “belong”. The writing seems abrupt and lacks the lovely language that makes a story a pleasure to read. And my heroine is a bitch. Yikes.

 

 I also have issues with this project because the book isn’t fun. I miss the rousing historical adventures and the colorful characters I usually invent when working on my “commercial fiction”.  I miss the good sex in my books, the flirting, the humor. I miss falling in love with my hero. Literary work is admirable, but I am not convinced it is what I am cut out for – although I think studying classical fiction has been the best decision I could ever have made.

 

I think I wrote (historicals) because it was a way to escape my life and have a wild adventure that I could control. What a kick. But writing a book about dance isn’t an adventure. It is sort of like sloughing through my psyche and revisiting old wounds and disappointments. When I write about the art of dance and all its beauty, I miss dance and get sad. When I write about the shit side of dance, I get disappointed and sad. Writing this book makes me sad. Period.

 

Anyway, I have only written about 180 pages in the last year. For me that is a shock, for I am usually more prolific. Heck, I wrote more than 150 pages in my blog last month! Writing this book is like slogging through emotional cement. A chore. Perhaps it is because the work is being evaluated by esteemed professionals, or because I feel I can’t just have fun and make it a humorous story because it is supposed to be literary.

 

So – considering all this, my professor has now suggested I write it again (shoot me) in third person. I know she is right. Mark says that I should trust my first instincts (which was to write this in a combination of first and third person – seemed the thing to do naturally) because my books are always best when they first emerge, but when I start listening to other’s opinions, I mess them up. He can’t understand why I don’t have confidence enough to follow my instincts and why I listen and respond  to other’s feedback as if they know more than I do regarding what my story needs.

 

The truth is, I don’t have the confidence he expects me to have because I recognize I have so much to learn. But he is right, I should trust my instincts and allow my stories unfold as they will – naturally – and not affected by rules or standards set by what has been published before. I can barely stand the idea of re-writing my dance book yet again, but it is my thesis project, so re-write it, I will. (Gag) I will spend this month getting the manuscript ready for my next mentor. This time, I am going to get serious and write the book I want to write. Forget literary. Forget what other’s think. This is my book about dance – a subject I know better than I know my own foot. I will write my story my way and see what happens. It is, after all, only a story, one of many, many that I intend to share with others. If it is garbage, well, so be it. It is something I must “get out” more than it is something others must read.

 

I think I am in my one-year MFA slump. I have a year to go, and suddenly I am craving the time and freedom to work on something with a different tone. Well, tough for me. I think going to my residency next month will be a good thing. Inspirational.

 

I wrote a story for submission to my workshop yesterday. It will require a bit of work before I send it next week, but I will post it as is just for the heck of it. For those of you who are fans of my romance and sex stories, this will bore the crap out of ya. It is, after all, a literary endeavor and I am trying to exercise certain skills. Think of it a bit like eating your spinach. Or, since this might be a better comparison for those that know me– it is like taking ballet. You may want to be a jazz dancer, but a certain amount of technical proficiency can only be developed from classical exercises, so to be a better dancer, you get your ass in ballet and focus, like it or not. That is what I am doing in this MFA. I am developing writing muscles, finding my center, building proficiency and skill so that when I am in jazz class (historical novel world) I can kick butt, defy gravity, and be as wildly inventive as I want. Freedom rides on the wings of technique.  

 

Anyway – enough excuses. This is my story. One of two. Number two isn’t even a glimmer of an idea yet. God, I need someone to innocently say something to spark a concept. That is the beauty of a personal exchange for me.  I need my muse to step forward. It’s been sadly MIA for sometime. Miss it dreadfully.

 

HANDPRINT

By Ginny Hendry

 

     John was sleeping. Nowadays, it seemed John was always sleeping.

     Beth paused in the hallway to stare at her gently snoring husband, the flicker of the alarm clock causing a red glow to grace his forehead as if he were a marked man. It was only eight. She had hours of loneliness ahead before she too would be able to sink into the oblivion that rode on the back of sleep. The problem was, she couldn’t seem to sleep anymore, even though she was exhausted all the time. John, it seems, couldn’t wake up.

     She walked into the hall bathroom, not bothering to quiet her footsteps or dowse the light as she would have done a few months ago when John turned in early. There was no point. Her inconsideration wasn’t likely to cause him to stir. Nothing would.

    Her bare feet met the cold tile with hesitancy. The bathroom was immaculate. He’d cleaned it again. The commode gleamed and the shower door sparkled. The usual streaky soap and mildew, proof that people actually lived in the house, had been wiped away with a pungent pine scented agent that flailed her senses, annoying her more than even the rumble of his slumbering breath.

     Not that her response made sense. John’s pitching in with housework was the kind of thing that would normally delight her. It didn’t now. The family toothbrushes no longer sat on the sink in haphazard disarray as they normally did. They were tucked neatly into a plastic organizer in the drawer, along with their daughter’s hair elastics and a few Band-Aids. Beth felt the empty counter looked unnatural. The smell, the shine, the very neatness of the room, annoyed her.

   With quick, erratic movements, she rummaged through the drawer to put the toothbrushes back on the counter, poking around under the sink to find her daughter’s Strawberry Shortcake Cup. She carefully arranged the smallest toothbrush inside and tossed her Oral B on the side of the sink, thinking she should use it, but why bother?  As an afterthought, she tossed a few hair elastics into the corner by the vanity, even though she knew this would confuse John. But maybe not. He would have to wake up to notice  things like that.

     She considered taking a bath, but the polished tub just didn’t feel welcoming. Instead, she slipped on a silk nightie, thinking she’d make a cup of tea and read. Leaving the light on, she thumped down a few stairs, then turned around and went back up to the bedroom. John had rolled over, but again, he lay still as death.

     She stared at her side of the bed, an empty cradle that would sink softly if she were to ease her weight into it, but  the idea of her crawling into that bed at any hour was paramount to lying down in a coffin. She just wasn’t willing to succumb to that trapped, dark loneness when there were other alternatives.

      It was odd. So many nights they retired early to snuggle into the 300 count sheets to watch a movie in that bed; their daughter, Sara, cuddling up between them, giggling as she purposely slid her cold toes against their legs. The bed was filled with fond memories, so the deep alienation she associated with it now made little sense. Nevertheless, she abhorred the four-posted cage now. The fact that John could sleep so soundly in it made her uncomfortable too.

    She grabbed her pillow and pulled at the quilt, dragging it behind her so it slid like a serpent from a swamp of warm sheets. Cold air swept over John, causing him to stir.

    “Where’re you going?” he mumbled, his eyes remaining shut as he hugged his pillow.

     “I’m sleeping outside tonight.”

      He ran his tongue along the roof of his mouth a few times, sampling the bitter sleep secretion that settles in a person’s mouth when in a comatose state. Beth could smell him from where she stood. Apparently, he didn’t brush his teeth tonight either.

      “Please, don’t sleep with the trash again,” he said.

      “What’s it to you if I want to sleep with the trash,” Beth said, but her voice sounded more tired than challenging.

     “It’s not healthy,”

     “Tomorrow’s trash day. All the cans are down at the end of the sidewalk,” she said, bunching  a pillow up in her arms.

     “That’s not what I mean.” His voice was muffled by a pillow, making it sound as he was far away.

      “I’ll be up later,” she lied, dragging the bedding behind her. John’s snoring filtered down the hallway, proving he really wouldn’t know or care where she slept tonight. His lucidity had been a fleeting thing, as she knew it would be.

    She passed her daughter’s room noting that the door was closed. Sara hated that, so Beth quietly cracked the door open an inch, then went on down the stairs. 

    She made herself a cup of tea and sat alone in the living room to drink it, watching the moon through the window, full and bright, save one thin cloud that dared streak through the middle, as if the mist was attempting to cut the perfect, bright sphere in half.  Beth thought shadows seemed hell bent to divide everything lately.

    Outside, she could see the moon reflecting off the swing set. John had rolled up the swings once again. The silhouette of the play set showed only lumps of chain tucked up against the upper iron pole rather than rubber seats freely blowing in the wind. He said he did this because the swings hit him in the head when he mowed, but even so, it didn’t excuse the fact that he never returned the swings to right afterwards. She considered stomping through the dewy grass in her bare feet now to free the floppy seats, but decided it could wait until morning. No one would want to swing in the dark anyway.

      She sat in the living room a long time, her eyes adjusting to the dimness even though she wasn’t really seeing anything around her. Her mind was elsewhere now. She was thinking of the trash.

    When they first bought this house, they put their trashcans on the lumpy grass beside the garage, where they were forever being upended by dogs or raccoons. Beth and Sara had to walk around the yard almost everyday picking up crushed juice cartons and yogurt cups, sticky with coffee grinds and last night’s dinner scraps. Something had to be done to keep the trash intact, so John decided they should poor a concrete slab along the house and fence-in the garbage area. They called two companies to get estimates, but no one seemed interested such a small job. Finally, John decided to commit a weekend to it. He would just do the job himself, save them money and handle the trash dilemma once and for all. How hard could it be?

      The first weekend he dug up the grass and leveled the area. It took longer than he expected, but he liked how it looked. There definitely was a designated trash area now. The next, he built a two by four frame to establish the parameters of the area he would need to concrete. He then spent a third weekend mixing concrete in an old wheelbarrow, but despite bags of the stuff, it seemed as if the oblong frame would never fill. His back hurt and his hands were blistered from stirring the murky gray mortar with a rusty shovel. He complained that it felt as if he were trying to hold sand in a colander, because no matter how many bags of concrete he mixed and laid, the oblong area he thought would be a perfect, generous size, required more. He had only completed only one-half of the cement floor and still had an entire second slab to go. Meanwhile, his wife and daughter continued picking up trash, looking expectantly at the unfinished area, innocently asking when it would be complete.

     John complained. It wasn’t as if he was the one turning over the trashcans at night. He bungeed the can lids and even bought two new, snap lock cans, yet still, animals found ways to scatter the contents all over yard. The only saving grace was that John was so busy each weekend mixing concrete that he had no time to mow, so much of the remnants of last night’s dinner lay burrowed in the calf length weeds where the wayward trash was at least less obvious. 

     On the forth weekend, John announced he couldn’t mix anymore cement, so he took a break to erect a fence, satisfied that this, at least, was progress. The next weekend, he couldn’t face the project again, so he devoted that Saturday to lawn maintenance.

     “The grass does keep growing, even if there’s a trash area to build,” he snapped, when Beth asked if he planned to finish his project so his daughter could wash her hands of coffee grinds for good.   

     “Why don’t we just stick the trash cans in the fence the way it is,” she said. “Maybe all we needed was a fence all along. Really, is the concrete so very important?”

     “The concrete is what provides a clean, steady surface for the cans. Best of all, it’s permanent,” her husband insisted.

        Beth decided to let it go. John always seemed too quick to acknowledge the concept of permanence.

        The conversation forced him back to the job at hand, mixing concrete until, finally, a few more bags were all that would be needed to complete his neat, protected trash area.

     Beth and Sara made lemonade and brought a big glass out him, appointing themselves Daddy’s private cheerleaders. As John smoothed the surface of his last load of concrete to make a perfect rectangle, they “oohed” and “ahhed”, celebrating not only his well-constructed trash area, but their retirement from the daily trash pick-up chore.

    John ran a trowel over the wet concrete with a sigh of relief, growling when a leaf blew on top to mar the perfect surface.

    “Oh, no you don’t,” he said to the leaf, picking it out of the cement, crushing it between filthy palms and throwing it behind him into the grass.

    “It’s perfect, Daddy,” Sara said, clapping her hands as a four-year old is wont to do when excited.

     “Can we put our handprints in the cement?” Beth asked, thinking it would be fun to leave a lasting impression of the family here, embedded in what felt like a special communal project, considering it had consumed their weekends for almost two months.

     “The concrete’s too wet, and besides, I rather you didn’t,” John said, his brow wrinkling as if the mere idea of sinking hands into his perfect project was painful to imagine.

     “It’s just a trash area,” Beth reminded him.

     “It’s taken me forever. Is it so much to ask that we respect this work? I just want it to be perfect.”

     “Nothing’s perfect.” Beth pointed out. “Besides, a few handprints will add character.”

      “Impressions on the surface will leave dents that will do nothing but collect dirt. If it remains smooth, we can hose the area out easily and we’ll always have a perfect, clean trashcan area.” John said, wiping sweat from his forehead.

     Beth reached out to toy with his hair, something she always did when teasing him. “Now dear, get real. Is there such a thing as a perfect trash area?”

     John gestured to the streamlined cement hardening behind a secured fenced-in rectangle, then closed the gate as if baring their entrance for good. “There is now.”          

      They went inside for lunch, after which, John went upstairs to nap. Beth was surprised, because John never slept in the day, but knowing he was exhausted from his efforts, she took Sara outside to play on the swings. Her hard working husband deserved quiet and rest and swinging seemed a far more inviting pastime than picking up trash.

     Sara giggled and squealed as the motion of the swings caused her stomach to flip. Each time Beth let the momentum slow down, her daughter would whine and beg another push. After an hour, Beth couldn’t bear seeing that swing careen towards her one more time.

    “No more swinging, Honey. Mommy’s arms are tired.”             

    “Please. One more time.”

     “I can’t. Let’s find something else to do.”

     Sara’s lower lip puffed out as if she were about to wail. Beth’s eyes slid to the house wondering how long her husband was planning to rest. It was pretty unfair for him to leave her alone to entertain their demanding four year old by herself the entire Saturday.

      “I’ll tell you what,” she whispered, tickling her daughter’s tummy. “How about we put your handprint in the cement? It will be there for all time.”

    “Daddy will spank me.”

     “Daddy won’t know.”

     The child grinned devilishly, loving the idea of sharing a secret with her mother. Together, they ran to the side of the house, laughing at their mischievousness because the idea of breaking a rule was even more fun than actually doing it.

      Beth took Sara’s hand and led her to the far side of the fenced area. Kneeling to the ground, she pointed to an open space between the slats.

    “Hold your hand out like this.” She spread her fingers wide so her hand was like a flattened spider. “Put your arm through here and press it into the cement.”

     The little girl did as told. Beth guided her wrist to make sure the handprint was deep and defined. Together they giggled at the icky gray residue left on Sara’s retreating palm. They wiped her hand on the grass, and then went inside to wash her hands in the kitchen.   

      Tomorrow, before Daddy gets up, I’ll put the trash cans back and he’ll never know our secret.”  Beth said, handing her daughter a cookie from a box on the counter.

      “Will he be mad?” Sara asked, crumbs falling from the corner of her mouth.

      “Not at you,” Beth said, giving her daughter a kiss and wiping a cookie morsel away from her lip. She knew John might grumble a bit, but one look at their daughter’s tiny handprint, captured for all time, and he would understand.

       John woke a few minutes later, and no sooner did he give his daughter a hug than she blurted her guilt about wrecking Daddy’s cement. His nostrils flared and he gave Beth a perturbed glance but that was the extent of his fury. Sara described putting her handprint in the goo with such wondrous enthusiasm, it made them both laugh. It was just a trash area, after all.

      In the end, Beth never did put trashcans on the handprint. The imprint wasn’t a secret that needed hiding, besides which, she liked being able to glance down and see her daughter’s hand each time she lugged a load of kitchen scraps and old newspapers outside.

      She knew her daughter’s hands would grow. Larger. More agile. The hand that held hers would someday no longer be a toddler’s hand, but a child’s, then a young woman’s. Yet thanks to her decision to defy John’s will that one and only day, a token of their baby was forever embedded in their home, and Beth could visit it any time she wanted. Sometimes, while taking out the trash, she kneeled down to press her adult hand over Sara’s small child sized impression. If only their little girl could be preserved forever in time, small and sweet, like that handprint.  

        Beth took her teacup into the kitchen and returned to gather her quilt and pillow. She wasn’t tired but she was ready to turn in. Carrying her bedding, she padded through the garage and out the side door to the trash area where, like the night before, she would sleep. It didn’t seem odd to her. It wasn’t unsanitary or anything, because she’d hosed the concrete down just that afternoon after she discovered John had put the trash out there again. She hated when he used the area for trash, but he insisted that was what the place was for. Not to Beth. At least, not anymore.    

    She spread her quilt out onto the perfect cement, angling her pillow so she could look up at the stars.

   “Good night, Sweetie,” she whispered, her voice floating up from behind the secure fence and fading on the wind as it floated into the vast dark. A dog barked. A garage door closed in the distance. Beth stretched her hand out to cover the small impression beside her, a hand that would never get any bigger.

     Holding it, she fell asleep to dream of swinging. 

     

    My husband doesn’t read my blog. He simply isn’t interested. The few times he’s “checked-in” have been inspired by something said in passing.

    A friend makes a comment or a joke and he’ll say, “What are you talking about?”

    They’ll laugh, and say, “You know . . . the blog.”

    This makes him feel a bit awkward or concerned about what everyone is hearing, so he’ll sigh. “I better read it and find out what Ginny’s been saying.”

     In a way, his interest is like that of a parent who feels they have to check upstairs because it’s too quiet – they feel obligated to police the silence to assure their kids aren’t sitting on the bed, naked, smoking a joint or something. 

   Sometimes, when our daughter makes a comment about the blog, he’ll say, “I’ve been busy so I haven’t gotten to it yet,” as if he is embarrassed that he isn’t a regular reader. Or, with an apologetic tone, he’ll comment to me that he hasn’t read my blog in a month or more -like it’s a marital obligation to read whatever I post. Of course, by now, I’m surprised if he does read it, so it isn’t necessary he make excuses for, or justify, his disinterest.    

  Sometimes I feel guilty about writing a blog, as if I am creating an annoyance for him –one more mundane task I’m heaping onto his to-do pile. “Gotta weed those damn flowerbeds because my wife has mentioned it four times this week and I have go pay for the storage unit because she is worried about that getting behind, and as if these responsibilities aren’t enough, now I better read her damn blog so I appear interested . . ..” He shouldn’t feel pressured to dutifully pay attention. My blog isn’t a test.

      When my daughter said, “Why don’t you read Mom’s blog?” he answered, “I don’t have to read that stuff. I live it.”

    Hummmm…….

    But last night he said something that really put his feelings into focus. In a testy voice, he said, “I don’t like the blog because it’s slanted. It’s her take on our world. Not mine.”

    True.

 

     A blog is more than a factual accounting of the events of one’s life – It isn’t an outline or a daily calendar. A blog is a way of sharing specific experiences and your perceptions of those events in a manner that challenges your ability to express yourself. It’s putting “life” into words – telling your own story – which is more difficult than non-writers might imagine. It’s a challenge to know what to talk about, what to include or exclude and, of course, having the gall to be honest. And it takes discipline. Many’s a person who began a blog with enthusiasm, but ran out of steam when another interest took center stage.

     My perceptions of everyday events are different – must be different – from my husband’s or anyone else’s. That’s what’s called point of view, a vital element of all literature – the element that makes a story poignant and intimate.

    For example, I got a llama for my birthday. That’s a simple fact. But how I feel about that event – how I experience it- is going to be far different from how Mark experiences it. For me, it was about the surprise and my emotional response to the gift. I assign my own set of “truths” to the act of getting a llama. The animal, as a factor, is besides the point. Receiving it, to me, was an act of love  – I interpreted it as proof of my husband’s commitment to making me happy. 

   As such, my llama blog is “slanted”, because it revolves around how I experienced the event. If Mark shared his vision of this very same event, it would be far different. The fact that he bought me a llama would still be the same – that is an undeniable fact. But from him, we would learn what it felt like to write the check for an animal that he feels we don’t really need (or that he doesn’t really want). We would learn what he felt looking at his wife’s face in those first moments when she saw the llama.  Did he feel satisfied with my reaction? Was it worth the trouble to arrange this gift, or was he disappointed with my response? Did he consider his gift an act of love, proof that he wanted me to be happy (as I did) or was it just easier to buy the llama because he was too stressed and disinterested to shop for something else? (Hope not.) This point of view is what would make his blog worth reading. Without the slant, it’s just journalism. Bah. Humbug.

   A blog is not supposed to be a factual accounting, sans opinion. It’s like a public diary -a medium designed to reflect and interpret accounts.  The fact that Mark is not interested in reading my interpretation of the experiences we share is a personal choice. He “lives” these facts, and as such, doesn’t necessarily desire to see them from an angle other than his own. There is nothing wrong with that. It’s his personal choice.

   I, for one, wish everyone I loved had a blog. I would adore a window into their heart and soul. I think freeform writing provides outsiders with a powerful resource to understand a subject and, maybe, to respond in kind. An honest blog (hopefully) makes a reader reflect and think. If I were given an opportunity to read my husband’s slanted view of the world, I may not like what he’s thinking, but I’d like to believe the awareness would be a gift. So often I wish I knew what was going on in that masculine head. This having to read minds and second-guess the one you love is a big fat pain.

 

    My blogs are always, absolutely, accurate. No question. I take pains to assure they are. When I write dialogue, you can bet those exact words were said – verbatim. If I describe something, I do so to the best of my ability, complete with what I notice, what strikes me as important and what stands out. And I garnish this with the feelings that hit me along the way. They are real too. Absolutely.

    I’m in a creative non-fiction course with a professor named David Rachlin. I send him two pieces every month. Because these exercises are meant to be derivatives of real life experiences, I browse my blog to find material. I find a passage that is interesting (or has the potential to be) and work on it, make it more polished and defined, to send as my assignment. David says some very positive things about my work, often commenting that my writing is very “real” and “natural”. He likes the funny details I include. For example, when I sent a 20 page paper about teaching Kathy to read, he wrote that he loved the extra’s I added, like making Kathy’s husband a septic tank cleaner and describing her lack of teeth. “These are the sorts of things that are unexpected and draw the reader in,” he said.  

      Creative non-fiction is all about taking truth and adding fictional elements to make the story more vibrant. But the funny thing is, I don’t add fictional elements to my piece. Kathy’s husband does clean septic tanks and she doesn’t have teeth.  And even so, the story was interesting, standing alone, naked as it happened. Frankly, I find life in general to be is pretty interesting without embellishment – all you have to do is simply look at it through interested eyes. That’s where “slant” is so very special.

      I prefer to keep my stories accurate. Because of that, I’m not really exploring artistry in the category of creative non-fiction. As such, I get lots of corrective criticism regarding my straightforward prose from my professors. I add sensory detail to make a story more vivid, but I can’t bring myself to alter the facts. Guess I’m all about the “non-fiction” element, but not about the “creative” element when writing creative non-fiction. 

    When an author springboards from real fact, just to enhance the entertainment factor, I don’t find them very trustworthy, no mater how acceptable the practice is in the literary world. So for me, the only element in my work that is up for discussion (in regards to it’s accuracy) is my point of view.   And frankly, that is mine to share and it can’t be criticized. No one can complain that your honest response to life isn’t what it ought to be just because it differs from there’s.

    I guess a person can hide what they honestly feel. We are taught from birth to be polite and to hide our gut feelings to avoid social discomfort. But I think, being able to write from an honest place is harder than it looks, and anyone who doubts this is so should give it a try. You’ll find yourself censoring your voice more often than not. Trust me. It’s easier.       

   But for all that honesty is a challenge and admirable on one level, sharing your honest feelings can get you into trouble. If you’ve done something nice and you share it aloud, people accuse you of trying to make yourself into a hero. Bragging. (My husband once read a blog about the bunnies and commented that I certainly can make myself into a hero when I’m in the mood. – Ouch. I rather thought he might see me as heroic due to my true actions, rather than focusing on the words that described them, as if they were the contrived just to get attention.)

     Then there is the fact that if you dare criticize something or proclaim your disillusionment about a subject you feel strongly about, you are suddenly hateful or attacking others. I wrote a blog about the tension and volatile emotional environment of the dance school business and was later told it “offended everyone who has ever known me, and now everyone hates me.”

    Everyone? Wow. People have known me (and professed to appreciate me) for over ten years and in one two page expression (which was only intended to explain some of the past riffs in relationships with people I always considered dear) they turned their feelings around 180? Talk about the power of the pen! But, rather than be devastated by that, (well, a little) I found myself feeling blessed. For no mater how painful it is, you have to accept that it’s a gift to know which of your friendships are superficial and which are built on sterner stuff. All I know is, if I sat and had a drink with a real friend, and I expressed an attitude they did not agree with, they’d tell me I’m full of shit and that would be that. But they wouldn’t stop being my friend. If one disagreement is all it takes to dissolve a friendship, then you can be damn sure there was never much of a friendship to begin with. My very best, most revealing, fights have been with the friends I love and respect. Honesty has the power to test your relationships on many, many levels.

 

    My husband doesn’t want to read my blog, and that is, at times, awkward, but mostly, it’s just a sign that our methods of processing  the world are different. He associates something to my being open that he doesn’t like – as if I’m contriving to get attention or something. Or maybe he just doesn’t trust that my point of view is a true accounting of my perceptions. He thinks I’m full of shit. Or maybe, the simple act of listening to the woman you’ve lived with for eighteen years is a complete bore. After all, what do I have to say that he hasn’t heard before? It can even be that he feels venerable and exposed knowing I’m talking out loud about things that concern him. He rather ignore it than start censoring me – which is a form of respect if you think about it. Perhaps his not reading the blog is due to a combination of all of the above.

   I’ve thought about what this means to me, this having a husband who doesn’t read my blog. Ha. For one thing, it means I can talk about him if I want. (grin) 

   But really, it just means I’m alone with my thoughts here. And that’s OK.