Bullying

I'm not going to reproduce the entire article here, but I'm featured the on Butterflies and Roses blog belonging to author Brinda Carey.

Excerpt: 

"Words hurt. The childhood rhyme sticks and stones can break my bones, but words can never harm me is wrong. 

In my career as a child protection worker I learned the most devastating abuse was emotional. Emotional abuse occurs in a variety of ways. Generally, with words and either inappropriate inclusion or exclusion. Sometimes with gestures meant as threats of violence. Emotional abuse occurs in all types of neglect and abuse. It is the most difficult problem to treat. A bone heals. A bruise fades. The emotional trauma is often there for life."

For the complete article go to: Butterflies and Roses by Author Brinda Carey.

Ethid

My grandmother was never able to say the name Edith correctly.  She always said Ethid. So when I decided to relate this family legend I used the name as I do not know the name of the baby sister who died. This was written with the intent of presenting it to the Halloween meeting of the East Texas Writers Guild.

Ethid was pale, her lips dusky blue. She'd always been fragile. As the baby of the family she'd been Maria's secret favorite. Poor suffering child, she was safe at last in the arms of the Blessed Mother. But how Maria would miss her joyful smiles.

Adjusting the white frock she'd stitched for her sister, Maria determined Ethid was ready for the viewing tomorrow. Blinking back tears, she turned from the tiny casket. She blew out the oil lamp and tiptoed away, careful not to wake their grieving parents.

Crawling into bed with her younger sisters, Elizabeth and Catherine, she envied them their peaceful sleep. As the eldest, many tasks fell on her shoulders. Seeing Ethid properly attired for the grave was one of them. Snuffing the light, she settled into the warmth of their bed. Closing her eyes she slipped into exhausted slumber. If only she knew Maria had finished her new frock.

Tendrils of sleep took her down towards comforting rest.

"Maria..." a wispy child's voice called softly. "Maria..."

It was so painful to think she was hearing Ethid calling her name one last time from the gates of heaven. Tears pricked against her eyelids. And then, for some reason, Maria opened her eyes to what should have been a pitch black room. Expecting to see nothing, instead, she lurched up in bed. There, above her, was the new frock, floating in the air, illuminated with heavenly light. 

"Thank you, Maria..."

But she didn't hear the thanks of her sister's spirit. She had quietly fainted.

Not all Writing Exercises are Equal

Today I attended a writer's workshop and we had a flash fiction exercise. It involved each person in the room writing one related sentence on a piece of paper to make a story. 

I had a hunch when the first writer who got my paper said, "I see the words, but I don't understand them," that maybe I was in trouble. I did explain two mystery words. Nonetheless, the result of my starting sentence was somewhat like the end of a bad drug trip.  ;) 

Here's the story:

1. Chopin's Polonaise filled the air.  (That's my starting sentence. Chopin is a Polish composer and a Polonaise is a musical piece. I'm not sure saying: "Chopin Polonaise  Op 53" would have helped.) Its lovely, if  you'd like to listen while reading the rest of this. 

2. The sun broke through the clouds sending sparkling shafts to the ground. (What? Aren't these sentences supposed to be related and make sense?) 

3. Makalesh, the long brown-haired Coon Cat, at first lazily pawed at the light streaks, blocking them then releasing them creating strobelike effect. (Okay, we're doing light here...) 

4. With the appearance of the rainbow, the shards of light came alive and danced with Makalesh to the sound of the music. (Hey, we have someone who figured out that "filled the air" might mean music.)

5. Perhaps there will be a treasure at the end of this rainbow. (And thus ends the polonaise, cat and light show.) ROFL 

This goes to show how important it is that the reader has the faintest idea what you are talking about to begin with.  Elsewise, we have a lot of "sound and fury signifying nothing." (Shakespeare) 

Next time my sentence will be: Stop! 

I can think of so many things that could follow.

1.  Stop!
1. In the name of love!
2. Put the cookie down!
3. Hands in the air!
4. Don't stop!

Bridges

Bridges - 2016 Anthology: Selected works by the East Texas Writers Guild is now on sale through Amazon. 

This is a 374 page book by selected writers of the Guild. It has the most consistently good work of any anthology I've run into. I'm not saying that because I'm one of the authors. I'm saying that because the selection committee found authors who produce good quality work. It is as simple and as difficult as that. 

Unlike many anthologies (I'm not generally a fan of anthologies) there is a thread of quality that runs through it. There is no OMG this is so horrible selection nor is there a Pulitzer prize winner. What it offers is good, solid writing.

All of it. 

How do I know? I  read it.  Slowly. I've taken time to reflect on the quality of the writing. I was surprised at how good it was. I just met these folks a year ago. I didn't know them from Adam except as people who, like me, write. 

The children's stories are entertaining. The poetry (again, I'm not a huge fan of poetry) is surprisingly good. It contains fiction, non-fiction, poetry, and memoir. Everything from science fiction to stories about a child's imaginary worm friend. I love that children's story! 

This is a book that should be sold in airports. You can read complete stories on short hops or several on longer flights. It is a beach book. A nighttime book. A book to share with children or grandchildren. It is a book to give for a birthday to a friend who loves short stories. 

The quality of the printing and cover design is excellent. 

I wish there was a Kindle version. There is not. Maybe next year. 

Post-apocalyptic Visions

I peer through the blinds, like others of my species. We and our companion animals have retreated inside. The droids are here. Again

My dog whines and her body shakes in reaction to the sounds of the mechs as blades hack through vegetation, gathering in the harvest. A large ginger cat crouches under a low bush. Maybe he will be safe. If not, there's a plastic box on the second story landing to hide in. His eyes glitter at me as if wondering if I'd open the door for him. I would since he's never attacked my dog. Instead, he crouches farther back. The droning machine moves past and the danger passes.

A large blowing machine moves in next, but it is pointless. Droids don't recognize that the heavy

rains last night have left everything sodden. It is nearly impossible to move cut material into windrows. Before long another droid arrives, hacking at woody vegetation, toothed blades scissoring together. The cat takes flight, vanishing up a rotting metal stairway.

I peer out again to see branches being piled up as if for a bonfire. What the branches will be used for I don't know. Kindling? Do droids use kindling? They are not sufficient for building. Or will the creatures with hooded capes reminiscent of Jarwa use them for some purpose?

Rain arrives again in a fine mist and still the droids move deliberately, leaving deep black furrows in the thick ground vegetation. From prior history, I know the scars will heal, but the ground will have ridges. "Ruffles have ridges," I say to no one in particular and turn away from the blinds.

Tatooine? Nah, too much vegetation. Endor, home of the Ewoks? Or is it the gardening crew back for their weekly visit? 

Alternate Worlds in Our Reality

I've been watching Call the Midwife on Netflix. The series is based on the book Call the Midwife: A Memoir of Birth, Joy, and Hard Times by British midwife Jennifer Worth. I heartily recommend both the books and the TV series.

I'm transported to an alternate reality. In this case, a world based in the 1950's in the impoverished Docklands of London's East Side. An order of Anglican nuns and associated nurse midwives live at Nonnatus House to serve the inhabitants of this slum. The midwives bicycled around the ramshackle area while doing their best to insure safe childbirth and provide home healthcare. Telephones were almost unheard of in private residences and people depended on the ubiquitous red booth. National Health Service had just begun. Life was difficult at best and impossible at worst.

During those years I lived in a small town in the American midwest. Our grandmother had a telephone and our mother had a business phone, but telephones were rare. There was no bicycling  for business transportation because distances were much further than in the tenements of London, but we kids walked everywhere. We did not have midwives since American doctoring had extinguished them by then so learning about midwifery and home delivery is all new to me.

In learning about how to portray alternate worlds, if we keep our eyes open, we learn they are all around us. Later in life, I found many when I was a social worker working in a large poverty pocket, and later still when I lived in areas with large Native Alaskan populations. Later again in various areas of urban Boston.


As writers, when we create an alternative world - and they all are alternative to the reader - our prose will require vividness and complexity to draw the reader into that world, whether it is populated by goblins, romantics, midwives, or space aliens.  

When we arrive at the door, which path will we take and what will we find on the other side? Can we see it? Feel it? Smell it? What lies outside the door to your alternate reality? What will your readers learn?

Life and Disjunction

Life and disjunction. Nothing seems to hang together the way it should. Or could. While some of the players remain the same - parents, siblings, peripheral relatives, kids and grandkids - there is a distinctly disjunctive theme to life. My life, at any rate.

I've lived thither and yon, sometimes at the needs of a parental unit - as my daughter now refers to the individuals who give rise to and raise children - and sometimes at my own needs or whims. I'm no longer sure which is which - the need or the whim. Is it wanderlust or the absolute need to relocate for some truly viable reason? A job. An educational institution. A marriage. Career advancement. Running away from home - perhaps this is whimsy, although it might also be survival.

What is disjunctive in life gives rise to that which we end up dwelling upon with intimates, therapists, spiritual counselors, and others. It is what propels me to write, to figure out the why, the what next, the what would have happened if, the how things could have been different.

What is it that brings you to place pen to paper? Fingers to keyboard? Or perhaps an eye to the lens in order to capture some moment in a visual mode? Is it the bits of life that don't fit together easily? Those bits that flow smoothly like a slow moving river? A few years ago I caught this young enjoying the warm July day at Castle Island Park in South Boston. Is there a disjunction between his activities or a smooth flow? We never spoke. I wonder - a cell phone to take a call from a friend, take a photo of his kite, or because he didn't want to fly a kite and is sneaking in a call while a parent isn't looking?

It will always be a mystery and the picture will always be open to interpretation.