Now What?
I invite you to predict the future of America. If ever there was a time for writers to write, this is it. Give it some thought and words. Your honesty–and creativity–are always appreciated. You are poets and word wielders. Take us into a possible future, give us a new perspective, or blat out a personal reaction.
How Many Genres Can You Mix?
“Shields up,” Captain Ransom Nevermore barked. “Aye aye, Captain,” said First Officer Angelina Octarina, just before the AI unit attacked her, ripping the top of her uniform half off as he moaned with repressed desire. She grabbed the tattered shreds of her uniform and tried to conceal her two ivory orbs. The resident deconstructionist author tapped her note pad. “Can someone turn off that AI unit? His moaning is making it hard for me to write this fascinating multi-genre interaction.” “El Capitan,” said Jefe Carlos, materializing on the bridge with five Mexican banditos wearing battered sombreros. “Hand over your weapons, por favor, or we will have to toast you over a slow fire.” The incognito Secret Special Forces Agent in Charge stepped forward to confront Jefe Carlos. “Produce your Certification of Authority, or I will be forced to put you under arrest.” Carlos sneered. “Badges? We don’t need no stinkin’ badges.” “Did someone say the Badgers stink?” A man in a plaid flannel shirt and baseball cap that had a big red W on it barged forward, looking for someone to fight. “We’re 14 and 1. We’re going to the Rose Bowl and UCLA better watch their backs and eat their sox.” “Here’s my trenchcoat, sweetheart,” the man with the Fedora told Angelina Octarina. He spoke with a Camel dangling from his lip. “We can’t have those twin bazookas distracting the troops.” Chief Engineer Wonky Spanner stuck his head up through a floor hatch. “I’ve fixed the shields, Captain. All it took was some ladies’ hair pins, a sticking plaster, and a Rube Goldberg contraption I put together from an umbrella, a bicycle pump, and sixteen gears driven by a moaning AI unit I handcuffed to a treadmill.” Meanwhile Carlos and his banditos had begun to harmonize to an upbeat version of La Bamba. Not to be outdone, the man in the Fedora teamed up with the Agent in Charge to croon a melancholy, One for My Baby, and One More for the Road. Incensed, Captain Nevermore and Engineer Spanner tried to tune everyone out by breaking into the chorus of Nessun Dorma, from an opera by Puccini. First Officer Angelina Octarina looked around, sighed, and straightened her trenchcoat. She waved at the writer, said the magic words, and disappeared in a cloud of smoke.
Your Old Car, Your Preferred Color, Your Favorite Season, and an Old Pet
I gratefully grabbed the empty parking space facing down the steep hill, curving my tires into the curb. I’d need that hill to bump start the ‘56 Pontiac. It ran okay, but it had a cracked block so that whenever I had to stop at a light, I had to throw it into neutral and gun the engine so it wouldn’t stall. I needed that downhill parking spot to pop the clutch. So far, that had worked. I was heading for the consignment store, Clever Threads, where they’d show my home-sewn clothing and hopefully sell it. I had made a flowing sky blue skirt with many layers and a deeper blue and black vest (the colors of deep dusk) to match. Maybe it would catch someone’s eye. I could use a little money. Thanks goodness spring had arrived in Wisconsin. I was exhausted from the chores of making wood to heat the house and heat water. It wasn’t just that; I was pregnant. It had seemed like such a good idea at the time—I’d decided I wanted to be a lady with babies, and Billy and I had been together over two years. But he was traveling with the band a lot, of which I was no longer a member, and I was alone more than half the time. We’d rented an old farm house and traded our old pickup for two baby calves. But now I had to mix formula for them twice a day in a five-gallon paint bucket and hold my fingers underneath the surface so the calves would get the idea of sucking and then be able to drink on their own. Problem was, I was scared of the barn. There were spiders in there, maybe mice or other bad things. And the calves were two more animals that pooped and pee-ed wherever and whenever they wanted, trusting me to keep things cleaned up. Their noses were always wet, and they seemed to enjoy wiping them on my jeans leg, leaving wet stains. They were not sweet old pets, but colossally dumb and needy baby cows. As I climbed the hill back to my car, I decided to trade them for something else. I was going to need a washing machine.
Feet
I recently discovered what I should have always known. My feet are faithfully waiting to take me onward. They keep going. I believe feet are under-rated. Perhaps you can contemplate your own feet and write about what they’ve meant to you, where they’ve taken you, how they have been good to you. Look down. They’re ready!
Sad News for Members of the September, 2006 Session of Beginning Writers Workshop
I have heard from Kathy Mendenhall that she just found out that our dear colleague and talented creative writer, “Sandra Dee” (Jenny) died from lung cancer several years ago. Sandra Dee was someone whose creative efforts gave rise to the always well-received list called, “You Know You’re a Writer When…” that I continue to post in Discussion Area 11 every single session. I feel grateful to know that her writing lives on in the Beginning Writers Workshop that continues to start up again each month. I know some of you remember this session. (I think I’ve remembered the month correctly.) It was a truly memorable group, one that included both the wonderfully talented Gullible and the endlessly entertaining Peanut Beranski. I may be forgetting some: Orlando? Walk? Perhaps you can refresh my memory. I see hundreds of names each month. But I do remember Sandra Dee. May her spirit of adventurous humor and ongoing support for us all live on in our own efforts.
Turning Point Moments
~~Back in the 1960s, a female could get kicked out of school for coming in late to the dorm or for being caught in a men’s dorm. When the clock hit midnight and your new love looked at you with tender eyes, did you stay out or mind the rules? ~~Your favorite employee comes into your office swearing at the top of her lungs, right when you are having a friendly chat with your boss’s boss. Do you tell her to come back when she calms down or do you invite her to sit down and ask your boss’s boss to join you in the real world of being in charge of two dozen overworked women? ~~She did it again. She cheated on you while you were in Europe on business for six weeks. Trouble is, you did too. A really fine-looking, smart French woman was working on the same project with you, and after a few nice meals together and friendly evening walks, things got out of hand. Your move! ~~Junior is getting picked on in school. Do you tell him to butch up and fight the bully or call the school and ask them to intervene? ~~You get tickets for a Jackson Browne solo concert (fifth row center!), but right in the middle of the second set, aliens land outside the intimate venue. Tough choice!
Creativity Feels like This
My creativity feels like this, but I also want to hear about yours. Mine came out as a poem, but that is not required. Just shoot for as much accuracy as you can. Creativity Take all your failures Mash them into every urge to screw around anyway Throw in a cross-eyed stare A stubborn lower lip, a tongue between teeth And lay it all out, end to end, in words. Take all your happiest smiles Feel them in your chest Exhale fear, then shrug and let it back in. Say, “Who cares?” And start. Think of the least obvious The fourth item past the cliché Or don’t think Pretend you’re not really doing this And are actually off doing laundry or washing the floor Then hit “Record,” but don’t watch. Repeat after me: It’s okay; it’s okay; it’s okay. Then pat yourself on the knee and tell yourself You’re a good kid, And whatever you put out there today is a fine start.
Icons of Childhood
We all have our icons of childhood–special objects or places that epitomize what it meant to be a kid. Here’s one of mine, and I’d like to hear about some of yours. The flat spot between the back seat and the back window of those big sedans from the 1950s and 1960s. Remember being small enough to find that the perfect place to crawl into and take a nap while Pop or Mom drove at night or on a long trip? It wasn’t perfectly comfortable, since those back windows used to curve, and the space was tiny. It was cozy, however. Much nicer than trying to sit between two bigger sisters who made you take the middle of the back seat where there was a big hump on the floor pushing your knees up into your chest.
Practice Being Accurate
If you’re here, you are a writer, and you pay attention to words. Here are some vague terms that are constantly thrown around, and as a writer, I’m increasingly annoyed. Here are my attempts at suggesting clarification. Please feel free to add your own phrases and interpretations. The Establishment: This description is as insulting as “you people.” It could mean anything from the local County Supervisors and your local library staff, to the House of Representatives, all lobbyists (from gun rights supporters to environmental activists) to the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Time to define our terms and find exactly the right words to capture what we mean. Elites: Who are they? Are they people in power like a county supervisor or the sheriff? Do all elites live on the east coast or are they also rich movie stars? Do you get to be one if you are educated? Is the head of a union an elite? Does it mean you’re a boss? Are you an elite if you supervise six people who run popcorn, funnel cake, and cotton candy stands at the local county fair? Another meaningless term. “I read somewhere that people are saying….” Let’s all agree, once and for all, that the phrases, “people are saying” or “they say” do not represent credible sources. These phrases mean nothing since somewhere people are also saying that the earth is flat. One more logical fallacy. Globalization: This sounds like a tidal wave that will engulf us all. But what is it really? Is it a secret plot against people who hold low wage jobs in America? Is it something “the elite” and “the establishment” are conning us with so they can get richer? Is it here to stay or can we destroy it with a suicide vest? Perhaps it is the logical result of the technology that increasingly links us all at the speed of light. Perhaps it’s the result of better nutrition, cleaner water, and more available medical care across the globe. A bad thing? Something to accept or vilify? Wall Street: Another vague generalization. Does this term include only the people that work there or perhaps anyone who has a 401K? If I work on Wall Street, invest in stocks, or live nearby, am I evil? Where does Wall Street begin and Main Street end? Sure wish the media would stop using vague terms. Main Street: My mental image of Main Street is very Midwestern U.S. There are the late 1800’s storefronts, refurbished to bring in new shops, many of whom go out to business in six months. The competition is rough out there because of malls and places with huge parking lots. But somehow, Main Street never seems to evoke manufacturing or farming. So misleading. I know many farmers, but they don’t ever think of themselves as Main Street. Immigration: Another term that has become over generalized so that demagogues can use it to scare people and get attention. Some questions that might add clarity are: Are there “good” immigrants and “bad” immigrants? Like my friend from India who came over in 1985, went through all the bureaucratic steps, and become a citizen–is he now a bad guy? Is the country of origin a rule-out? (Syria, Mexico, or any country with darker skins?) If all the immigrants were from Great Britain, Germany, and France, would this be an issue? If we all agree that prejudice against our immigrant grandparents was unfair, how did immigration somehow become bad? Polarizing: How easy it is to get angry and fight. How we love our own anger (“I feel it so strongly, it must be right!”). How soothing it is to find someone to blame for any injustice done to us (whether by family member, government, or some suspect ethnic group). How comfy and self-satisfying it feels to identify with “us” and suspect “them.” What is much more difficult is to pause and consider how much we are alike, how those people who are somehow “them” are also struggling to make it through adolescence/young adulthood, raise families, or deal with aging parents. We’re all struggling to find meaningful work, a place to have shelter, cook whatever we can find, and protect our loved ones from all problems. Coming together is hard; fighting is way too easy.
This is Galumphing
It’s time to fit some totally unrelated people, objects, and actions together into a scene or story that makes perfect sense. I’m stretching as far as I can to come up with the weirdest group of items, but I’m sure you can do this. Raspberry jam stain Weeds on the driveway Walking as fast as you (he/she) can Zero defects Pharoah Tony Bennett Hey, this could be worse! I left out the Nazis, the end of the universe, and purple nose cones. Count yourself lucky.