Before We Get Started by Bret Lott

I found Bret Lott's discussion of "a, and, the" a bit too long and tiresome. He could have made the point in fewer words.

His views and cautions about the ironies of publication seemed realistic and sincere. Rejection can be such a formidable thing to overcome. Many of us never make it. Certainly he has received both rejection and acceptance in great measure.

I appreciated and listed the books he suggested that had been important to his development as a writer. The first one I want to read, he keeps on his desk, What We Talk about When We Talk about Love by Raymond Carver.

Since he states, as did the other authors we read, that reading and writing are important activities to schedule each day, I am committed to this life discipline.

I was surprised that he was an RC Cola employee when he went back to night school. I was more surprised to learn that he stumbled into writing. It appears that he has struggled for the excellence and recognition that he has found in his writing career.

His ideas on writing creative nonfiction gave me some guidelines to try: to write the story word by word, to allow the story to happen, to allow the characters to be themselves, and to drop the characters who do nothing.

Meta-Text

Dear Amy,

I have changed the way I write. I know I have. Before, I was shallow and wide in my writing. I hopped from one vignette to another. Of course, I have always seen myself as something of an O. Henry. That was before this class. For several days, I did not like the idea of narrow and deep.

Reading the mini-memoirs of In Brief helped me see the importance of this concept. The examples Bret Lott included from the writings of other authors was also particularly helpful to me in this journey. I never imagined that I had so much improvement to make. This is one more style of writing to add to my toolbox to borrow a term from Steven King.

This course represents a first for me. I have never read 4 books in 2 weeks. Hip, hip, hooray for me!

It was helpful to me to have you say that I needed to break down the wall and find my own voice. You were right. I am on the way to doing that. I also may very well finish this class before the last minute of the last day. So many changes in so little time: Isn't change what this program is all about?

Thank you for offering to always be there for us in our writing journey. I will surely need that. Next month I will move to a mountain house with a special nook. There I believe that I will be successful at writing, painting, and potting, three of my favorite things in the world. The best to you.

Sincerely,
Teri Gainey Bastian

Daily Log Thursday, June 25, 2009

Delores introduced us to the Six-Word Memoir. She gave us several topics on which to write them. Afterwards, she distributed two typed pages of Personal History Questions from Real Simple magazine November 2005 and tips for getting to know people better through conversation. Both are great resources. Of course, she's a librarian!

Each person on the Bret Lott book review team asked the class a question. This was my best-ever book discussion.

Our mini-lesson centered on voice. Amy gave us suggestions for improving voice:

• go to a cafe and listen to the way people speak
• talk to the person you are writing about and listen for their speech patterns
• circulate and listen at a cocktail party (She didn't say this, but it sounds good.)

Lilless provided memoir food for snacks: Fig Newtons, ginger snaps, applesauce, orange slices, and gruit cocktail (grab a cherry!), all mentally stimulating.

After response groups, we wrote and blogged to prepare our final piece and meta-text.

Please Think of Me

Think again when you see me.
That’s not all you need to see.
I am more than what covers me –
Blue eyes, blonde hair,
The clothes I wear.
My brain, my soul, my heart, my actions
Are here to see.
But you must look further, and
Think again.

What a Difference a Pie Can Make

That strawberry pie changed my life. I had dated Jedi Evans, Prince Charming himself, since June. He drove a cobalt blue Corvette and lived in “The Big House” on Park Circle. Chestnut hair, huge brown eyes, and muscles galore, he was a catch. “Jedi” was short for Heber Jedidiah Evans, Jr. Jedidiah meant beloved of the Lord. I was pretty crazy about him, too. So was every other girl in North Charleston and some in surrounding towns too.

The Fourth of July was just ahead on the calendar. Jedi had invited me to spend the day with his mother and four sisters at their Folly Beach house overlooking the ocean. Mother decided I should take something good to eat. Something different, something associated with the Fourth of July. Not banana pudding. Not chicken bog. Not fried chicken. We racked our brains. No good ideas came. We needed help.

One night Jedi took me to Shoney’s Big Boy to have dessert together. It was a hard decision between the hot fudge brownie and the strawberry pie. My mouth craved the dreamy chocolate over chewy brownie. I was ready to say, “I’ll have the chocolate fudge brownie,” when Jedi jerked me back to reality with, “My absolute favorite dessert is strawberry pie with whipped cream topping.” My mind was made up. I would make a strawberry pie in my lap as we rode across the marsh in the cobalt blue Corvette on the Fourth of July. He said a rather crazy thing as we enjoyed the pie together. How would you like to come here and share strawberry pie with me for a long time?” I only wanted to find the recipe in time for the Fourth of July.

Making up my mind about the pie was easier than finding a recipe. Mother and I searched every recipe book at our house and every neighbor’s house on our street and the next. She wanted the recipe bad. Could it be that her daughter might really have a chance with Jedi Evans, the dreamboat of every girl in North Charleston? Where was that recipe? Again, we needed help. Tilly Dunston over on Braddock Avenue came up with the award-winning solution. We would use a cherry pie recipe and substitute strawberries. The three of us made a test pie. That was it, the same sweet, yet tart, fruity taste as the Big Boy special. Homemade whipped cream on top. It was sure to be a hit.

My next task was to find a sexy bathing suit and a stylish shorts set. Again, Mother wanted to be a part of the project. We tried Anne’s, the Navy Exchange, and Bobbie Brooks. No luck. Finally we went to the Bandbox at Pinehaven Shopping Center. We definitely were desperate. Their prices had always precluded my shopping there. Truthfully, I sewed practically all my clothes. Jedi and I came from different worlds. This holiday was becoming quite an adventure, maybe the beginning of a new lifestyle.

Our dates were regular now, almost every night. He kept saying screwy things like, “Do you think there is any chance for us?” Good heavens, how was a girl supposed to answer that? All that came to me was, “I’m not sure.” He went on, “Well, Linda Koester asked me that once and I said, ‘I don’t know about you Linda, but lots of people say there’s no hope for me.’” I was glad to laugh and change the subject. What kind of nutty conversation was that?

Predictably, the Fourth of July arrived. I sat with the strawberry pie on my lime green shorts set. Lime green was my best color. Second best was teal, the color of my sexy two-piece bathing suit. His mother and sisters raved about the strawberry pie. Somewhat of a catastrophe happened on the roof top deck when I turned over my favorite tanning lotion, baby oil laced with iodine. The deck was covered by a white tarp. Now it had reddish brown stripes radiating from my beach towel. His mother casually offered, “Oh don’t give it another thought. We were planning to paint the tarp later this summer.” In her voice was the ring of my own mother’s voice. Strange. On the way home Jedi said, “Your pie was quite a hit. I hope you will make it again and again for me.” Hadn’t he said something like that before? “Oh sure, I’ll be glad to.”

Before I closed the front door, he shoved a small box in my hand. “Just sell it or give it away or something if you don’t want it. I have asked you and asked you to marry me, and you just don’t get it." I opened the box, stared in disbelief, and looked up to see a cobalt flash leave the driveway in the twilight. In the box was a fiery diamond, bigger than anything I had ever seen. What was I going to do now?

Jedi graduated from The Citadel in August. On September 6, 1969, I met him at the altar of the Summerall Chapel. Surely, I was Cinderella. My prince had come, the one who loved strawberry pie.

Our Living Room

I had not bought the glue. I had not fixed the accident. Over a month ago, shuffling the sheet music, I heard the glass break. My mother’s green swan crashed on the hardwood floor of our living room. The swan was no regular swan. It was a final gift to my mother, a treasure from her own mother, now claimed by cancer.
This living room had always been a cold, empty place for me, except at Christmas. It adjoined the kitchen, and wafts of nutmeg and cinnamon floated in. The spotlight on our silver tree changed it from blue to green to yellow to red. We all loved that tree. The living room had transformed to a place of anticipation. What sat inside all those packages? This was the year my sisters and I did not use our Christmas money to buy each other gifts. Instead, we bought all sorts of gifts for our parents, true gifts of sacrifice. The destruction of the swan was the destruction of that memory. No more happy memory of this room for me, replaced by the sound of crashing glass. Dread joined the cold of my empty heart.
The room was sparsely decorated, now sparse less one thing. Mother did not notice the missing swan for a day, then a week, a month. My secret was safe. My anxiety eased. Still each day I faced my guilt at practice time. The broken swan lay in the bottom of my closet, broken, wrapped in a towel. I was careful not to look down each morning and afternoon. No one would ever know. If I didn’t see, it hadn’t happened. Anyhow, I would soon glue it. Glass glue, that’s all I needed.
The living room piano bench was a place of humiliation for me. My sister Lynn’s long fingers and analytic mind surpassed me shortly after we began our lessons. I never caught up with her. She was the math person. She understood how those half notes, quarter notes, eighth notes, and sixteenth notes, with their sickening little dots and lines. She was so perfect - I could not memorize the music. My fingers would not stretch an octave. Now my mind would not stretch either. My mind shrunk to the level of my deed.
Practicing my scales, I glanced up to see my dad standing in the doorway, the neck of my mother’s green glass swan in one hand, the base in the other, and the question in his face.
“You hid this in your closet?”
“I was going to glue it back together,” I cried.
“But, you didn’t,” an accusing face replaced the questioning one.
“No sir, I didn’t.” I hung my head.
The viridian shards mocked me. I had been found out. My secret sin of omission was revealed. I had disliked the room before. Now I hated it.
“You will be the one to explain to your mother.”
Then he left. I was alone in the living room with my fear and dread, the severest form of punishment: the consequence of admitting to my lie. I closed my eyes to the empty space where the swan had been. What would Mother say? What would she do? Would I need to tell her in this cold-hearted living room, the place where the swan had died? My grandmother’s gift was gone, too shattered to ever be whole, never to swim on the piano again.
Mother came home from work. I met her at the car and asked her to come to the piano with me to the living room. “Are you going to play a song for me?” “No ma’am.” I pointed to the empty space on the piano. “I broke your swan about a month ago and did not tell you.” Her eyes moved to the empty spot, and her body turned away. Her footsteps headed to her room, and I heard the door close. My mother had rarely talked about her past. I knew nothing about the swan, what it had meant to Grandmother Ellen, how Mother had acquired it, how long it had been in the family. Their life was meager. As a child, my mother had often been hungry. Her mother sometimes went as far away as Ohio to work, a victim of a blackball at the local bleachery. She was a widow with four children and two parents to support. I knew I would hear Mother cry if I listened at the door. She never mentioned the swan again. I did not either. She had to face her grief and longing a second time. I had to live with my deed.

I found the author's life interesting initially, but soon tired of it. The analogy of the toolbox was helpful to me. Another helpful set of advice was his use of contradictions: write what you know, or don't; use good grammar, or not; use good vocabulary, or not. He argued both sides of each piece of advice successfully. To me, a true artist is the person who breaks "the rules" successfully.

His advice of leaving out adverbs and adjectives, using strong nouns and verbs, limiting word use, and using active vs. passive voice have strengthened my writing.

I hope to improve my habits to become a better writer as he suggests - read more, set up a schedule, write daily, have high expectations of self, create a good place to write, lead and healthy and balanced life.

I want to read more of the books from his list at the end of the book. Also, more of the authors he mentions throughout the book.

Daily Log Tuesday, June 16, 2009

We all agreed that Amy set too high a standard for the snacks by what she brought yesterday.

Lynda brought myriad objects to display for our writing prompt. We could choose from antique sunglasses, a crystal ink well, paper stars, Japanese dolls, sacred Hawaiian beads, and so much more. The end of the table was covered. Too bad we did not have more time to write. We wanted to choose more and more to write about.

Our mini-lesson addressed character vs characterization. Character is the description of a character. Characterization tells the things a character does to move the story along.

Everyone created a blog from a booklet of directions Amy wrote. We are all so proud of ourselves.

We wrote on Assignment #1.

Early Morning Walk (Charleston Marathon)

The dew tingles my feet
On the path across the spiky grass,
The path leads me to the boardwalk.
The breeze is almost imperceptible
Until I jump to the pebbled path.
A stronger, pleasanter breeze greets me there.

Foreign language, loud behind me,
Passes, then fades as tourists saunter toward the water.
Distant voices prattle on.
Footsteps come and go.
A child clomps.
The distant sea sends a gull's cry.
A speeding boat seeks the rugged island's shoreline.
The taste of breakfast Chai remains.
No more dew as I return.

And the Beat Goes On (Charleston Marathon #2)

The beat of the music brings the familiar lyrics from the 60's, "She must have been somebody's baby. She's gotta be somebody's baby. She's gonna be somebody's baby... tonight."

"Don't wait too long, Russ; she's movin' on."

"Maybe if you go on over to the Moon Pie Cafe you can 'Kick Your Ass to Hot with Ass Kickin' Roasted Garlic, Ass Kickin' Beer Bread, Ass Kickin' Cornbread,Ass Kickin' Beef Jerky, Ass Kickin' Fish Fry, or Ass Kickin' Chilli Fixin's.' Hurry. You might just make it in time."

Candles call me from their perch on the store shelf, each wanting a place in my home: Bergamot Tobacco, Pink Grapefruit, Bamboo Teak, Pineapple Ginger, Mango Tangerine, and Pomegranate Citrus. Some smell stong; some smell mild.

Pomegranate Citrus reminds me of the sepia photo that sits on my mother's dresser. My great-grandparents appear stoic beside their little girl, later to become my grandmother. They chose to stand in front of the pomegranate tree in the backyard. My eighty-two year old mother and her brother still laugh about eating that tart fruit and spitting the seeds in the lake as they crossed the bridge on their way to school. They could never decide which was worse, the pomegranate or school. Perhaps I will buy Pomegranate Citrus.

Bamboo Teak takes me back to the glow and aroma of teak polish as I prepared the cabin of the 27' Tartan class sailboat for the arrival of dinner guests. Perhaps I will buy Bamboo Teak.

I remember the status of my bank account and decide to leave the decision of which candle to buy for another day.

Life on the Farm

Grandma Minnie woke me before she woke the sun. My family had arrived the night before, after my bedtime. My dad had carried my little sisters and me into the house asleep. He had recently retired from the Navy, and had left immediately for Charleston. It was going to take about two months for him to find a job and a place for us. The rest of us got to live on the farm until he returned. I had been a little city girl in Norfolk. First grade was behind me now. I would be going to McBee Elementary later this morning. Before I could learn to tell time, I had to learn the skill of milking. I winced. “That’s life on the farm,” she said with no mercy. “Get up and come on.”

I followed her up the hill in the pasture. The heifers were in the barn, slapping their butts to get rid of flies. Apparently flies awake before dawn too. No fly swatter hung by the door. Flies of all sizes swarmed. They bit me, too. Flies are detestable. The barn was detestable too. So was this farm. The whole place stunk like manure.

Cows have difficult teats for tiny hands to squeeze. Grandma demonstrated some combination of squeezing, twisting, and pulling that led to success. She warned me to steer clear of the cow’s back leg, “It might kick you.” She went to milking her own cow, and I had to figure out the trick for myself. Then the sicknin' old cow kicked over the pail with her back leg. “Money lost,” I heard from the other side of the cow. Grandma Minnie could not deliver that milk to anyone on her way to work today. The rancid smell of clabbered milk would be here to greet me in the morning. This was not the fun I had imagined.

We carried the pails to the kitchen. Grandma sieved the milk with cheesecloth and poured it to a clean pail. That night I watched Grandma Minnie churn butter using a tall, wooden tub with a stick poking out of the top for a handle. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down. I was mesmerized. This was after the sun had left the sky, never complaining. She showed my sisters and me the miracle of pale yellow butter forming at the top of the tub.

While I was in school she had picked and readied the butter beans for tomorrow’s delivery. Each day she delivered milk, butter, and butter beans from her truck en route to her job at the cotton mill. Grandma had to do too much homework in my opinion. When did she get to play? She ran a farm and worked in the sweltering mill, impressive information for a little child. Today her 30-year Hartsville Cotton Mill retirement pin is my treasure. I show off this tiny gold and blue memento with pride each time I wear my cotton sun hat.

After the cow adventure that morning, Grandma Minnie pulled off in her truck for deliveries and work. I walked down the dirt driveway to the huge tree at the road to play on the exposed roots while I waited for the school bus. My mother sent a note for the teacher. Mother could not come to register me because she had no car. Times have changed in the last fifty-two years. I wondered what my mother contributed to the farm while I was in school. I had better sense than to ask. That would be impudent. I knew the meaning of that word well. I also knew what would follow if I used it.

When I had finished my homework, I watched grandma make chicken and dumplings from scratch. She taught me to cut up squash and onions. I cried unwillingly. “Cut off the root end first, and you won’t have that problem.” The next time I cut up onions, I discovered that was true. Earlier in the afternoon, I had joined Grandma on the screened-in porch rocking and shelling the field peas that now simmered on the stove . Slimy okra topped the field peas.

I came to appreciate the okra whether it was fried or boiled. It wasn’t easy to get. My Grandma Minnie put on her long sleeve wool flannel shirt, took a knife, and let the screen door slam as she marched into the hot sun to cut the okra. I was right behind her, questioning why she had on that wool shirt. She said, "Wait. You’ll see.” I followed her into the okra patch. Then I caught on. The prickly okra plants forced me right back out of the row to watch and wait.

The steamed summer squash with onion that I had cried over occupied a stove burner. The delicious smell of frying chicken came my way. As soon as grandma placed the last leg under a paper towel on the table we all gathered for her blessing. It was the same as my father’s. "Lord, make us truly grateful for these and all other blessings. Amen." Fresh sliced tomatoes, cucumbers and biscuits under a tea towel took their places beside the fried chicken. I sat beside Grandmother.
Grandma Minnie made the best biscuits in Darlington County. She tried that night to teach me to make biscuits. “Put in some flour, some salt, some baking soda, some milk, and some Crisco. That’s all there is to it.” I listened and tried. It was useless to try to teach me, although she tried day after day. How could she possibly know the amount to add without measuring? Another day I asked her to stop and help me measure everything as she went. She agreed, but even that did not work. Some magical combination of her hands, the ingredients, and the wide, almost flat, wooden bowl made those flaky biscuits. Adding Miss Minnie’s homemade butter made them perfect. Sometimes I still try, and fail again. Maybe someday I will pull out that wooden bowl and the smell and sight of light brown flaky biscuits will greet me from the oven. I doubt it, though, since I am sixty.

That first evening Grandma Minnie made banana pudding from scratch. More mixing flour and milk, this time with sugar and butter added The main difference between making pudding and making biscuits is that the pudding process took place on the stovetop in a copper-bottomed pot with a black handle. She added and stirred, stirred and added. I remember the last ingredient was vanilla. This cooking thing was too much for me. I thought, no need for me to try to learn to cook. Grandma asked me to put a layer of Nabisco vanilla wafers in the bottom of the Pyrex bowl. Then she showed me how think to cut the bananas and place one slice on top of each cookie. Maybe this was my kind of cookin’!

Grandma Minnie poured hot, bubbling pudding over my layers. I layered more, and she poured more. I layered. She poured. We stopped when the last layer was about a half inch from the top. Grandma Minnie took out her white mixer and milk glass bowl. She whacked the egg on the edge of the sink, popped it open from the middle and wound up with all the egg whites on one the side of the shell. She poured off the egg white into a chilled bowl, turn on the beaters to full blast and whip those egg whites with sugar and a pinch of tartar. Next, she threw away the yolks. Spoonful by spoonful she filled the Pyrex bowl with this meringue and swirled the last dip to a point in the middle. Directly into the oven the pudding went to brown the top. After the meal, I ate spoonful after spoonful, warm and silky. It slid onto my tongue, then down to my happy tummy, another culinary marvel. After dinner, at the kitchen table, I watched Grandma Minnie roll up her pants leg and wipe her bare thigh with alcohol. She plunged a needle through the robber stretched over the tiny glass bottle. “How can give yourself a shot?” "You do what you have to do." I wondered if someday I would do this too and shuttered.

At sunset she and I walked up the hill hand-in-hand to round up the cows. Together we steered them into the barn. The farm didn’t seem like such a bad place anymore. As I watched Grandma Minnie run the farm alone day after day, I realized that hard work came naturally to her.and light yellow butter.

Walter, the Blogger

"Blog” makes me think of Walter. He could blog all day. He collects newspapers posting his blogs and reader comments as people collect lighthouses, guns, shoes, or flashlights. He sits in the coffee shop blogging from 7 a.m. to 3 p.m. His computer is one of his few possessions. He sacrifices a home, a car, and relationships to follow this pursuit. It is his career, his passion.