Tag Archives: Writing

Paltry Amens

23 Friday Jul 2010

Posted by in Life at Home, Soul Care, Writing

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My Teacher and Me

It felt like church this week.

Holy time.  Seven days of creating words on paper.

I am spent.  But also thankful.

I’m thankful to my husband who gave me time apart.

I’m thankful to have been surrounded by interesting classmates — gifted and generous with time and encouragement.

But is there a most of all?  Well, yes.  Usually, there is.  And this prayer’s most-of-all goes to two teachers who made my week possible with their wisdom in the art of writing.

It is a paltry amen for this week of gifts.  But like the widow and her mite, it’s all I got.

In the Shadow of Greatness

22 Thursday Jul 2010

Posted by in Far Away Places, Writing

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There is something about Iowa soil conducive to growing sweet corn and writers without combining the two.

I haven’t experienced sweet corn.  But I cannot escape the literary presence.  It’s everywhere.  Bookstores, of course.  But it’s the writers themselves who make their presence felt.  In coffee shops.  Before open mikes.  In talks at eleven o’clock.  In front of a class of eager students.

Evidence litters the central avenue downtown, in sidewalk etchings of words left by others.  Reminding me of  paper tucked inside fortune cookies, the words come from writers.  And others who would not dare name themselves so.

…it is thinking makes what we read ours.  Locke

…a wicked book cannot repent.  English proverb

…keep a diary and someday it will keep you.  Mae West

…a good book is the purest essence of a human soul.  Carlyle.

Yesterday, I stumbled upon this one by Flannery O’Connor.

“Everywhere I go I’m asked if I think the universities stifle writers.  My opinion is that they don’t stifle enough of them.”

In the shadow of greatness, I saw my own shadow dance across words that once would have cast shadows over me.  I walked away unharmed, light on my feet.

Going Halfsies in Iowa

18 Sunday Jul 2010

Posted by in Life at Home, Writing

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One class down, another to go and I’m already wiped out.

The class beginning tonight will be more intense.   Draw me further to the edge.  Push me to write fiction.

Once upon a time, I thought I wanted to write fiction.  Living in the land of make-believe, I bragged to my husband, “I know I can.”  He surprised me with agreement.  Took the air write out of my sails; and with nothing left to prove, I didn’t even pick up a pencil and try, though I did buy my first how-to book.

Three years ago I had this story kicking around in my soul, and my son Kyle kept asking, “How’s the story going, Mom?”  My response was always flavored with the same gist:  “I’ve got no story, Son.  That’s your department, isn’t it?”

And now I’m going to write fiction?  Just like that?  Play God by not being in control of my characters.   Talk about getting out of my comfort zone.  What seemed so do-able in March seems less so now, minutes away from the starting gate.

The last few days, I’ve reminded myself of that Lenten mantra that I lived with earlier this year — “It’s no better to be safe than sorry”-–  which helped get me to Iowa in the first place.  And I have to ask myself: Do I really believe these words?  In my heart of hearts, wouldn’t I rather play it safe and tell myself I’m not sorry?  It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve lied to myself.

If I return to the festival next year, I will be less greedy.  I will settle on just one class.  For “Betcha-can’t-eat-just-one” doesn’t apply here in Iowa.  Because sometimes, Three Dog Night, one is not a lonely number.  Sometimes, one suffices quite nice.