Writing a Book in Month

The following is taken from the book " Book in a Month" by Victoria Schmidt, Ph.D.

The five secrets to keeping the momentum of your writing moving forward are:

Secret number 1) work as if - which means that as you write and decide to make a change in plot, character, or setting (make a note on the margins of the change made and keep writing as if you have already gone back and made your change (Don't stop your forward momentum by going backwards and changing the character.
for example:
Betty was a nurse at County General working the graveyard shift. She liked working in the dead of night because she felt she was away from the general madness that takes place on the other shifts.

[AUTHOR'S NOTE] I decided to change Betty from a nurse to a kindergarten teacher so she can be closer to children.

Betty liked her job because now that her own children were grown she could still be around youngsters who appreciated her.

Secret number 2) Leave out subplots (to get a book finished fast this is a must) Side plots and subplots tend to distract you the author from the main plot.

Secret number 3) be realistic -MOST IMPORTANT SECRET - Don't try to write more than you can - if work, kids, and other things (holidays) take up your time so be it - DO WHAT YOU CAN as far as writing goes

Secret number 4) Don't use guilt or shame as motivation to write, don't put yourself down for not writing enough, or good enough - Just write as much as you want because you like what writing your book does for your own self-esteem. Positive motivation always is better than negative motivation

Secret number 5) Trust Yourself - when nagging little (or big) doubts come into your head such as 'Is this good enough' or 'I don't think I can do this' - TRUST YOURSELF - trust that you will make some adjustment in order to deal with whatever comes up
YOU CAN DO THIS
The author admits that secrets 4 and 5 are psychological in nature but says that a trick of writing is learning how to deal with yourself and the ways you block yourself.

I hope this helps you.
Frank

Semi-Big News

All you writers who want to post your stories but do not want to have to go through a lot of technical, tedious details of learning how to make a blog or post on a blog, I have news for you.
I have created a new blog for you. It is called

Our Write Place

You can get there by clicking the below link

Our Write Place

There I will post any and everything, you writers give me. I will also provide links to your websites and blogs unless you tell me not to. I hope you like it - Frank

Classes set for Jan. 2009

Coming In January - More creative Writing Classes
Afternoons ( 1 pm to 3 pm) on Wednesdays starting January 14th

Evenings (6:30 pm - 8:30 pm) on Mondays starting January 11th

All creative writing classes encourage you to write -
Both fiction and non-fiction
Novels, short stories and poems
Essays and narratives
Memoirs and Biographies
Humor, romance, and scary stories

Come and find your inner writer
Come and find the stories inside of you

World Famous Author Mocks Me

Here is a link to an email I received a couple of days ago.

World Famous Author Mocks My attempt at Novel writing ! Read all about it.

Enjoy and Keep Writing,
Frank

Welcome Patty to the world of Creative Blogging

Patty Mc has just made a new blogsite for her stories and commentaries. I hope she posts often as I have always enjoyed her writings (especially the last one about the tree that sheds its bark.

Visit Patty's blog via the link I have just added in the member website section (on the right, 1/2 way down or so).

Good luck to you, Patty

Frank

Writing 2 weeks worth

The assignment for this week is to write about LISTENING. This means you can write about something you heard (that perhaps you were not meant to hear) or Why won't anyone listen to me or Listening to the sounds of life (whatever that may be) or A telephone call or a Radio show or Whatever you can come up with involving the word Listen (or any of its derivatives). 

Your writing piece can be nonFiction or Fiction or both (best choice).

Also the day class agreed to write their novel for Xmas as long as I show them it can be done (by emailing them the progress). To that extent I have checked out of the library the book A NOVEL IN 30 DAYS GUARANTEED

ALSO class will not meet next week due to lots of people cooking on wednesday.

Let me know if you want to be in the Xmas novel club.

Frank

National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo)

I just found out that November is National Novel Writing month - I got the below article from a website promoting it.

I think that I will lay down the challenge to any Want-To-Be-Writers to finish a novel by CHRISTMAS. I will try it myself and keep you guys posted on my progress (both here and on my Frank Speaks blog)

Good Luck and Keep Writing,

Frank

National Novel Writing Month is a fun, seat-of-your-pants approach to novel writing. Participants begin writing November 1. The goal is to write a 175-page (50,000-word) novel by midnight, November 30.

Valuing enthusiasm and perseverance over painstaking craft, NaNoWriMo is a novel-writing program for everyone who has thought fleetingly about writing a novel but has been scared away by the time and effort involved.

Because of the limited writing window, the ONLY thing that matters in NaNoWriMo is output. It's all about quantity, not quality. The kamikaze approach forces you to lower your expectations, take risks, and write on the fly.

Make no mistake: You will be writing a lot of crap. And that's a good thing. By forcing yourself to write so intensely, you are giving yourself permission to make mistakes. To forgo the endless tweaking and editing and just create. To build without tearing down.

As you spend November writing, you can draw comfort from the fact that, all around the world, other National Novel Writing Month participants are going through the same joys and sorrows of producing the Great Frantic Novel. Wrimos meet throughout the month to offer encouragement, commiseration, and—when the thing is done—the kind of raucous celebrations that tend to frighten animals and small children.

In 2007, we had over 100,000 participants. More than 15,000 of them crossed the 50k finish line by the midnight deadline, entering into the annals of NaNoWriMo superstardom forever. They started the month as auto mechanics, out-of-work actors, and middle school English teachers. They walked away novelists.

So, to recap:

What: Writing one 50,000-word novel from scratch in a month's time.

Who: You! We can't do this unless we have some other people trying it as well. Let's write laughably awful yet lengthy prose together.

Why: The reasons are endless! To actively participate in one of our era's most enchanting art forms! To write without having to obsess over quality. To be able to make obscure references to passages from our novels at parties. To be able to mock real novelists who dawdle on and on, taking far longer than 30 days to produce their work.

When: You can sign up anytime to add your name to the roster and browse the forums. Writing begins November 1. To be added to the official list of winners, you must reach the 50,000-word mark by November 30 at midnight. Once your novel has been verified by our web-based team of robotic word counters, the partying begins.

Still confused? Just visit the How NaNoWriMo Works page!

The monkey types

This is my inspiration - he comes from the 100 word challenge website - check it out on Google.

A one hundred word story

(I have accepted your challenge Diane - here is a 100 word story)

The monkey sat in front of the typewriter, pounding the keys furiously. It was an antique model with a ribbon nearly worn through. Surprisingly, the machine still worked and there was some words albeit faint appearing on the paper. clickety clack. The monkey kept working away, typing, pulling the carriage back in place when the end of line was reached (which was signalled by a bell), and occasionally pausing as if to think of what should come next.
Behind the monkey, there were two men in lab coats. One of them, was a man named Shakespeare eagerly awaiting the output.

This Week's Assignment - happy ending

The class did really well with the terrible assignment I gave them in class - to end a story with the line
"Then I realized he/she had lied."

But now I am sick of all the negativity on the airwaves from the election so I want people to write anything as long as it has a happy ending and not just any happy ending, it has to be a happy ending for ALL the characters in your story.

Good luck.
Aside to Nancy - hope your procedure goes well.

Frank

Class Assignment

And now for today’s assignment - Making something bad out of something good. No wait that is too easy - make something good out of something bad. Now that is a challenge.

“To take something perceived ‘bad’ and to reframe it into something good. That was the assignment the teacher gave us. Why ? I don’t know. I think he sits up nights thinking of ways to torture us poor students. I think that he is a monster and should be fired and then we could get a good teacher and that would be a good thing. The End.”

The speaker was Angie Carlyle seventeen year old student in my creative writing class at Aunt MacArthur’s Halfway house for troubled teens of the southern suburbs who are rich enough to hire a good lawyer and thus get sentenced to hours upon hours of counseling and community service. My class counts as both community service (in the sense that if these kids are off the streets, the community is served) and counselling (in the sense that I give them advice to make some part of their life better). It is thus very popular with the growing population of upper middle class juvenile delinquents. I have a waiting list.

I give Angie an ‘A’ for doing the assignment. She did make something good out of something bad. I also write in my case notes that Angie persists in her rebelliousness and needs further counselling. I recommend another six week session in my class with the possibility of further sessions. I get paid by the student. I get paid to listen to teenage angst and attitude, most of which I find to be completely unimaginative. My goal is to make better whiners and more engaging arguers. If they become better people in the process so be it, but I do not have my hopes up.

The next student, Calvin Hobbinton reads his essay.
“I think that its a bummer how we don’t get to smoke weed. Lots of dudes are doing it and just because some old tight wad weeny wacking piece of shit judge doesn’t like the way I look I gotta do this crappy assignment. Plus I don’t get to hang with my Bros. And to lame it all out, I gotta come up with a happy ending. So I guess that I’ll have a flashback about grooving with my babe doing a number and wait happily to hear my scores. How about it, Mr. teacher-judge ?”

I think about telling Calvin it would be a happier ending if we were all buzzed but decide that this might send the wrong message. So I tell him to make a happier ending. He looks at me blankly. I get that reaction alot. I suggest that he say why this class is better than being at home with his parents. His blank look continues. I ask him if the judge who sentenced him to seven consecutive live terms of community service is in this class ?
“Nnno” he answers slowly. I can’t figure out if he is confused, cautious or is trying to access a part of his brain that has been damaged by drugs. I decided that it must be all three.
“Then is it a good thing that he is not here ?”
“She” corrects Calvin, “tightass bitch” he says while grinding his teeth.
“Then is it a good thing that SHE is not here ?” There is now more light in the room than before and the reason is that a light bulb has become illuminated over Calvin’s head.
“So the happy ending is that she is not here !” Calvin’s head is bobbing up and down in a staccato fashion. He is happy and suddenly the universe makes much more sense than it did before. I am a happy too. I consider Calvin to be one of my brighter stars. Some day, I think, he’ll work in Hollywood. Well, okay not maybe work, but get paid in Hollywood. Somebody will write down his ramblings and hit it big. Hmmm, maybe Calvin should also stay in my class for a few more sessions.
The next two minutes are spent trying to get Calvin to sit down. He is so happy that he is telling everyone in the class that SHE IS NOT HERE, CAN YOU BELIEVE IT, THIS IS SO COOL.

The next to read is Marla Ab Lan Gatta. Reading is a big step for her, at least to other people, living in the flesh people and not icons on the internet. Marla is not allowed to be within 100 feet of any machine that can give her access to the internet (I miss my iPhone). Marla is currently going through laptop withdrawal. She has folded her spiral notebook in half and reads from the top half.
“Those communist, fascist pigs in Washington are going to get what is coming to them. Come election day, the people will take back this country and make things right. And the rat bastard head of all that is evil will be defeated and we will take our battle to other countries and free them from oppression and then the universe will be right and all those who oppressed us will be thrown in jail and then things will be okay. The End.”
She shuts her notebook top down with emphasis and waits for the throngs of fellow followers to cheer and raise her on their shoulders.
Calvin, like the rest of the class, is in a world of their own. It is left to me to react.
“Good speech, Marla. ... Um could you tell me what the bad thing is ? “
She looks at me like I was retarded beyond belief. “The communist fascist pigs being in power” The last phrase is said like this : ‘BEing in PowERRRR. as in ‘Oh my God are you that dense. Didn’t you know that ?’ I have to admit that I was caught up in the emotional frenzy of her speech but then I remembered that Marla probably regards me as one of the bad people in power. I decide that I had better get on her good side because you never know with revolutionaries. Nobody thought Mao or Fidel would gain power. I give her an ‘A’ and write in my notes that she is ready for another class that I teach: “Finding your Voice.” Aunt MacArthur’s will be featuring that class in the Fall.

The speeches go on and on. Amy Greenberg talked about how it was good that she wasn’t pregnant (anymore), ) Olivia Whitestone told of her adventures as a runaway and how it was good to be back home (after being away three hours) and how the good it was that the courts took pity on her despite the fact she cost taxpayers one hundred thousand dollars by leaving a fake ransom note. Mark Slate handed in his composition about how he hates everyone in class and wants to buy some guns and get rid of them all and how it is a good thing that this is his last class and he will never see them again. I gave them all ‘A” s and I wrote that all need more class time. (Actually I did not write that - I stamped it. I had a rubber stamp custom made at Michael’s.)

Now the last student stands before the class. She is the oldest of them at twenty-three. She wears a drab Muslim-like dress and head wrap despite the fact she is not a follower of Islam. (It is one of those court appointed things, this being the only way she is allowed to be in a class with underage male students.) Her name is kept from me - she is only known as Jane Doe.
She reads her essay which is by far the best written, most intelligently presented one I have heard today. (Of course, I could say the same about most television commercials and all cereal boxes but truthfully hers was better than that).
It is about how she has lived a life of fear and how she never was able to enjoy being a woman not even with her husband who repressed her night and day. But one day she met a man who saw her for what she was, a man who allowed to her blossom. A man who showed her that she mattered and that she had a voice. And all this happened because the judge deemed her temporarily insane. She had to have been insane to want her loving husband dead and to want to collect his million dollar life insurance policy but now he is dead and she has all this money which she cannot get a hold of until she graduates from her twelve years of community service unless someone will sponsor her and grant her a certificate of sanity. But that is beside the point, because now she just wants to show her appreciation to the person who has turned her life around. She does not have much but what little she has is his for the taking. All she wants is a chance to give. And give and give. Multiple givings in one night, I mean, session.

I was touched by her essay in places I can’t begin to say (in public at least). I gave her an A+, the plus being that I recommended her for special individual sessions in Creative Expression (that I am teaching in the Fall with selected students that show promise). I also stamped her for more class sessions and I wrote in my secret notes ‘Maybe I can get something good out of this bad assignment."
The End

What can you do with this assignment ?
Frank

Alias Smith and Jones

This is a story I started today - it is in raw form so I would appreciate suggestions.

SMITH and JONES

The pursuit of honesty is my quest. Perhaps that is why I am intrigued by politics so much. I like a challenge. On a local level, politics is all about being known. Most people, myself included, are more likely to vote for a candidate that they know something about. Whether I vote for Smith or Jones for town mayor largely depends upon two factors -

1) What I know about Smith
2) What I know about Jones

If I don’t know anything about either one then I am either a complete idiot or an uninformed idiot. I believe that modern politics is based upon the assumption that most voters are both.
In Taoism, there is the concept of the clean slate which means that in every moment of life a human being has the potential to be unaffected by both past and future, A sort of being in the NOW. It is a worthy goal.
In politics, a clean slate refers to having no skeletons in the closet which means that a candidate has no dirty laundry which means that the researcher looking for either skeletons or dirty laundry has not done their job because their is always something to find. These researchers are known as campaign managers (or if the candidate has enough money to hire more than one full time staff person, assistant campaign managers).
Back to my example of Smith and Jones running for the position of mayor of Bumville which is unusual because no one ever ran for the position of Bumville (most ran from it). It has long been considered a truth in the local politics of Bumville that no one in their right mind wanted to be mayor of Bumville. The first mayor of Bumville, Joe the wino, was in fact certifibly insane (4 out of five doctors who tested Joe certified this, the fifth who was also insane, saw nothing wrong with him. This fifth doctor later became Bumville’s second mayor after Joe, in the midst of a three month bender, fell down, saw God, realized he was mayor and in a moment of lucidity ran away.)
Most mayors after Dr. Strange (the second mayor) were appointed by a group of civic leaders who tended to pick ‘the person not at the meeting’ as the new mayor. This is why for the last twelve years the civic leaders meeting to pick the next mayor
has been attended by the entire population of Bumville. This is also why for the last twelve years the mayor of Bumville has been citizen of Nicetown (our sister city just to the North of us, the town on the other side of the railroad tracks). The current mayor of Bumville, Cissy Wetrock, a stripper at Bumville’s adult X club, recently discovered that she was the mayor of Bumville and had been for the last eleven years. Cissy threatened to leave town if she was not reliefed of this position which caused no end of angst with the civic leaders who told her that she had to take the matter up with the mayor because only the mayor had the authority to remove the mayor from office which is strange because the mayor of Bumville does not have an office.
Cissy was not a lawyer, but being a graduate of Hartfort Community College she was no dummy either. Cissy came up with a plan in the wink of an eye. The said eye wink was at an Native American patron who after twelve consectutive lap dances and seven Long Island Ice teas, promised Cissy he would build a casino in Bumville. Soon word that there was going to be a casino in Bumville spread faster than Herpes at an orgy. Almost overnight (actually it was five in the morning) two new people appeared in town, both of whom wanted to be mayor. The present mayor Cissy became engaged to (and with) the Native American patron (aka Clarence Bad Eagle) and moved out of state (via Clarence’s eighteen wheeler), leaving the town with the obligation of choosing a new mayor. And a here-to-fore unprecedented situation of needing an election to make that choice.
It was decided that the town would piggy back on the national election and the town’s voters would write in whoever they wanted for mayor. It also was decided that since many if not all of the town’s citizens had trouble writing in any way shape or form the candidates would be voted by using a certain color crayon. Mr. Jones chose the color violet (or purple if you had a box with only 8 cryons in it) and Mr. Smith would be known by the color orange or brown if no orange was available). Now Bumville would have to wait until November to get a new mayor.
In the next few days, it was decided that Bumville would also have to have a vice-mayor whose job it was to either bring vice to Bumville or get more vice to come to Bumville. Surprisingly, the idea of a casino coming to Bumville made Bumville attractive to vice. Mr. Jones chose a housewife from Albertville named Florence Prudence to be his candidate for vice mayor. Mr. Smith chose a businessman from a Vegas family named Sammy (the Chiwahwah) Costellinoczck. Since no one could pronounce Sammy’s last name he was refered to as the ‘man’.
It was here that I entered the story. As beat reporter for the Nicetown Noisy Shopper, it was my job to report on what was not boring in Nicetown (which is nothing). So most of my stories were about Bumville and how wonderful it is that we in Nicetown don’t live like they do in Bumville. But now it seemed that Bumville would have something special (a casino) and Nicetownites were in an uproar. It was up to me to find the rotten apples, the worms inside of them and expose them all so that the citizens of Nicetown would feel superior again.
(End of part one)

The Ring

The Ring

You used to call me everyday. I could set my watch by the sound of your ring. It would be two o'clock with my eyes closed. Then I'd reach for the receiver to answer in a voice that seemed to come from high up in my throat, afraid it might not be you--just Purple Heart, did I have something to give, pick-up on Thursday. But then you'd say my name with a question mark after the last letter, like a child at the other end who had called a number, any number, just to see who would answer.
The phone squats heavily on the desk, a dark cloud without a rumble, no more lightning, an island silent in the ocean of noise around me. Children's voices rise and fall outside. They play; they think they are happy like I thought I was before I waited for the phone to ring. Did I laugh too loud, were my stories too long, no point to them, really. Did they bore you, were you stifling a yawn, wondering when would I give up and move on?
Is that what I should do? Wander into the kitchen, bake cookies, thaw out the ice-box, iron my husband's shirts, call my mother? Thoughts of you nest in my hair like unwanted gnats that hover and cling. I didn't want this to happen. Keep it casual I told myself. Stay cool, be friendly, a little aloof. But then I started to depend on the golden moment, your voice, the laugh that made me feel I had said something very humorous, something clever, something smart. I picked your brain; you picked mine.
So it's back to real life again. No more day dreams, just pick up the socks, do the laundry, read the paper, wait for the soaps, watch the romances unfold, stare at "Dancing with the Stars", fill the albums and the scrap books and remember when the phone did ring and it wasn't the Salvation Army calling. It was Johnny Depp.

The One That Got Away


"Do your ski?" he asks.
"I have run down a snow-covered hill with sticks on my feet," I say. "But I am not very good at it."
I may have been voted most likely to succeed in my 1958 high school class, but the voters could not see ahead to the summer of that same year when I got a job as a car hop at Hall's Drive-In. Often the hamburgers, the Hall's Specials, spilled on the floor as I ran with my tray held high in the air, blond hair flying, racing to place it against a car window at the curb. Women were understanding. Men were usually impatient. High SAT scores did not impress them as much as a deft waitress with snappy patter and a size 36 C bra.
But I digress. The questioner was Steve, an old boyfriend from high school and college, and even grade school many years ago. We were sitting side by side at my 50th high school reunion. Dressed in a black shirt and a textured black/gray patterned suit, smelling of expensive men's after shave, white hair cut fashionably short, he looked successful. Not like me, a little on the thick side, especially around the waist. No glasses, squinting, trying to read the Memory Book without them, as if I didn't need them. Hair newly frosted, earrings too big, cascading down on either side of a pudgy neck, drink in hand, trying to bolster my courage to face fellow classmates. Did I have to tell them that for the last 15 years I was an office nurse, doing a job I could have done straight out of high school? That my report card 'A's
didn't really count for much when it came to the real life job of getting along with wayward spouses and fussy children? Did I have to share that I was divorced once, twice married and still didn't feel like I had gotten it 'right'? That my cholesterol was 301? That my 40 year old son hadn't married, maybe the result of my own failed attempt?
I looked over at Steve's wife, smiling confidently, hand around her husband's arm, proud to be in the company of a good catch. She had known what she wanted and went for it. Not like me, who had dated many men in college but could never really decide who would have been the best one, the star to hitch my wagon to, so to speak, the one who would have an interesting job some day that would take us to Europe many times to live and move among the 'beautiful people'. She smiled knowingly, as if to say, "You had your chance and you blew it. Now he's mine. Too bad."
Then I heard Steve say, "Well, come and visit us anytime you're in Oregon. We have lots of room." I pictured a mansion with 24 rooms, all with fireplaces and complimentary perfumes on the dressers, a wait staff to take your coat when you arrived at the door, a stable of horses out back, a vineyard and huge vats of wine lined up, waiting to be tapped. Suddenly, someone at the mike cleared his throat. It was Dick, our Senior class president. A little paunchy, but still very quick witted, at ease with a crowd, and able to recall the smallest detail of old classmate escapades, he moved expertly through the crowd. "Janis," he said, "Would you come forward, please?" My reverie broken, I stood, uncertain as to why I had been summoned. I sucked in my stomach and wobbled on new high heels toward the mike. "Janis, we've taken up a collection. Here's a check for one million dollars. And we have arranged for you to choose to live with any man in the room for a trial marriage of one month. If, after that time, you decide this man is your true soul-mate, his wife will grant him a divorce and you can live happily ever after." I didn't know what to say. I looked at Steve, then at Dick, and back at Steve again. But then a man at the back of the room stood and yelled, "Rip up the check! She's a fraud and I've known it for a long time!" Who was that, I wondered. My first husband? How did he know that I was coming here? Did he follow me? Was he waiting for his chance to humiliate me in front of all these people? "Ken?" I said, "Is that you?"
"Of course! Do you think I'd let you lie about me and our life together? You'd make it my fault that we didn't stay together. You'd say I left you, helpless, with the children to raise all by yourself, when really you were the one who couldn't decide whether to stay or go. You wouldn't commit. You didn't know what you wanted. You never knew and you still don't know. You're just as mixed up as ever!" Stunned, I started to tilt backward and fell into a heap on the floor.
Just then, a voice from far away called "Janis, wake up! You've only got an hour to get to the airport! You wouldn't want to be late for your reunion, would you? All those disappointed boyfriends would never forgive you!" I smiled to myself, shuffled out of bed and reached for my suitcase.

Putting My Voice Out to the World

"The Hawk"

Watercolor and Pen & Ink

Hi all,
Just wanted to say I thoroughly enjoyed the Writer's Readings at Barnes and Noble on Friday night. And it was good publicity for the Center and all the wonderful teachers who reside there. We had a nice cozy group of writers and a great receptive audience to hear our creations. I found myself rather relaxed in front of the group as I was reading. I must have gone into a zone, merging with my words, going into a subconscious trance? It was a growth experience for me, pushing me outside of my box. I think it is very powerful not only to write our passion, but to speak it out to the world. I was quite energized by the experience and hope to do more of them. I know several of us are talking about future possibilities and venues. Any thoughts about this, please comment.
The painting of a hawk posted here goes along with the story that I read at Barnes and Noble. I wrote a story about nature and how humans can damage the fragile ecosystem. The hawk was the central character. I will post the story here soon but it is quite long. Well, enough being inside now. The sun is shining and I want to fly towards this beautiful ball of glow and dry my wings. (Yes, I've become the character I've written)! Am I a ghost writer now?
Bev

Dream Drop

I plump up the pillow and turn it over to the cool side. Squeezing my eyes shut, I will myself to sleep. Now, I say, let go, float in space, relax, don't think about anything. Don't plan your day for tomorrow, don't write out your shopping list in your head. Just dream of peace, of cold raindrops on the window pane. Watch the path of a drop as it glides down to the sill. Hear it plop when it falls to the ground and soaks into the spongy earth, oozes into the roots of a weed that's gnarled around the crack in the sidewalk. Follow the drop as it snakes up the stem, bleeds into a leaf and spreads to the jagged tips. It pauses, undecided, where to go next. Should it continue nourishing or skip to the surface and roll away? The shiny liquid sphere wants to be on its own, to jump into the darkness, reflect the moon, mirror the sky, wash the world clean with its watery coolness. It has its own dream.

THE BACK COVER

I thought this might make a good back cover. What do you think ?

You asked for it

This is Bev's Idea for the cover of the magazine or booklet or whatever you want to call it. What do you think ?

Mean People - I don't mean you

I don't know why people are mean to each other. Take this birthday cake for instance. Would you eat it if someone gave it to you on your birthday ? I would not and I did not think that Lin would either. That's why I kept it and its luscious creamy chocolate-ness to myself. Sorry Lin but someone had to save the world from this mean cake, so I chose me. And that is why you didn't get this cake from me. Happy belated birthday anyway.

Neighborhood Rumble

Their voices carried across the prairie into my backyard. His was the loudest, accusatory, strong, self-righteous. I tried to make out the words. F--- was all that I could hear clearly. Then came her voice: angry, cynical, defensive, maybe a little whiney. It was clear, he would win. He was the most strident. What was the fight about? Burned steak on the grill? Too much shopping going on? Junk in the backyard? I doubt it. Something more like, I'm embarrassed by your stupid outbursts, your temper, your constant complaining. Why can't you be like Joe's wife--a looker, slim, big boobs, full hair, holds her liquor, real whistle bait, always agreeable?
Because I'm your wife. You, the big bafoon, overgrown ape, can't fix anything but good at breaking everything, including our marriage! I could have done a lot better, but I thought you would be different. The best of the lot, I thought. Boy, what a fool I was. All that bragging you did about how much money you made. Now you got fired and you're sitting at home in front of the TV. Day after day. You don't even shave! My girlfriends keep asking what's wrong, why am I down in the dumps? I don't know what to tell them. The truth? Would you like that? Oh, my husband just got ticked off and told his boss where to go. Next thing, he's out the door.
And what about the kids? They need school clothes, shoes, books, lunch money. Where is that going to come from, huh? Your drunken father? My crippled mother? It was your idea to leave Iowa and move to Chicago. More work opportunities, you said. Well, here we are. I should never have let you talk me in to it. What was I thinking?
Oh, yah. Well, you have arms and legs. And a backside. Why don't you get a job? Always talking about how attractive you were to your old boyfriends. Get out there and prove where your looks can get you. It's not my fault housing construction has shut down and guys are being let go. I tried. Honest to God, I did. Every day in the hot sun, sweating, aching from carrying shingles up those ladders. I just couldn't take being yelled at all the time. Hurry it up, he said, move faster. It felt like those slaves building the pyramids. So I told him to shove it, that's what I did. So Monday, I'll sit in the hall and wait for work. I got it before; I can get it again. (to be continued...)

Lightning in a Bottle ? Huh I don't gt it

Lightning in a Bottle - only at the Center - only in Creative Writing class

Homer Glen Gathering

Thank you all for coming last night for the wine-klatch. It was fun for me and I hope for others. It's nice to meet members of the other writing group in a casual setting. And what a beautiful evening!

I'm Back

I just wanted to let everyone know that I haven't fallen off the face of the earth. Believe it or not, I actually posted something on my blog today. I'm back! I hadn't written anything about my son, Jeff, so this new piece is a tribute to him. Hope you are all well and continuing to write.

perfect stranger

Perfect Stranger

Why do we use the term 'perfect stranger'? The one I'm thinking of was not so perfect. In fact, for years I have blamed this person for a major turning point in my life and this is my story. .
I was going to school and living in an off-campus apartment. I was old enough to take care of myself but still very naive about men, relationships and what a few drinks can do to one's better judgement. Ben was a blind date. He was studying for the ministry (of all things) and had just come back from his yearlong vicarage in California. He didn't know any girls in town so his brother gave him my phone number. It happens all the time, right? Well, he sounded nice enough over the phone, we met and when he opened the door to my place that first night, I was smitten. Tall, with dark, curly hair that framed a tan face. Nice smile. Clever opening banter. Hey, this could be THE ONE, I thought. We started dating regularly, so no, this is not the stranger you will eventually hear about.
To cut to the chase, I got pregnant. The night was balmy, we went to a jazz club in down town St. Louis, the music and drinks went to my head, we came back to my place and that's where it happened. I never planned it that way. The daughter of a Lutheran teacher with the son of a Lutheran pastor--only innocence could prevail. Wrong, that's exactly why it did happen. I was on the virginal wagon, it could never happen to me, I wouldn't let any sweet-talking guy knock me up. But, bam! There it was. And all I had to show for it was a red stain on my sheets which would take me a whole jug of Tide to get out. The sad part was, there was no joy in it. All that grunting and sweating and he was out of the apartment like lightning.
Of course, it only takes one time. I waited, Ben waited, no period came. I had even considered breaking off the relationship since I didn't feel comfortable with what had happened and how Ben had responded. But then, with the realization of a pregnancy, I panicked. Raise a child out of wedlock, no job, no income, no support, in a strange city? We've got to get married, I said, and Ben, after what seemed like endless consideration, finally agreed. The tough part was calling my parents. "Guess what? I've met the man of my dreams and we want to get married--soon!" I didn't have the nerve to mention the circumstances, only that we'd like a wedding before the year was out. My folks were floored, but the Lutheran in them softened the blow. What better life for their only daughter than to marry into a religious family and be married to a pastor. They would plan the wedding and try to cope with the mysterious urgency.
The expected nuptials took place in August and the following March our daughter was born. Then a second surprise occurred--Ben got a Fulbright to study in Germany. He was ecstatic, just what he wanted. A chance to study abroad. Maybe not with a family in tow, but we thought it could all work out. We were young, full of hope and optimism. We were both smart, successful students with our whole lives ahead of us. We would live the '60s American-bohemian dream in a small, quaint apartment in Europe. I would get a job in a library to help make ends meet and Ben would write his doctorate on Paul Tillich. In our minds, it could be bliss, maybe not so pure, but bliss nevertheless. Our baby was only seven months old when we sailed. I was 24 and the first German word I learned was "durchfal"--diarrhea--because she suffered with it throughout our passage across the ocean.
Now came the kicker. After four years and no thesis completed, Ben decided he could work better if I and our four-year-old went back to the states and lived with my parents. He would finish his work and return to us in the next few months. By this time, I was pregnant with our second child and flew with our daughter to St. Louis to await his return from Germany. Again, my parents met the challenge and took us into their home. But Ben didn't return as expected and one year later, after we had just celebrated his son's first birthday, the son he had never seen, I received a letter. He had had difficulty writing his thesis in German, had hired a woman translator, and, you guessed it, had fallen in love. Anyway, he had always felt trapped in our marriage, he wrote, and he wanted a divorce. True, the Other Woman was a stranger, but still, not the one I have in mind.
So much for the American dream. The arch had just been built in St. Louis. On my worst days, I contemplated jumping from it. On my best days, I was in denial. How could he do this to me and the two kids--just up and leave us? Surely he would get over this infatuation and come back to us. He would get a teaching job in a small university town in the US, we would raise our little son and daughter, and life would be beautiful again. I told no one about the letter and Ben's devastating proposal, probably hoping that would make it go away. Crumpling the blue sheet of airmail paper wet with tears, I disposed of it. I don't remember if I responded. What would I have said? Have a nice new life? I'll mail photos? Send lots of money?
Ben finally did return, but four years later, the divorce was complete. I got a job not far from my parents, rented a small apartment for me and the children, and tried to start over. Reluctantly, I went back into the dating scene--singles dances at church, a few blind dates set up by friends, parties at work. I didn't really like it.
That's when I met Gary. He was just back from Vietnam and still felt awkward about meeting people. As his eyes darted back and forth, I thought he seemed to be looking around for the enemy. He was the roommate of my best friend's fiance, so we double dated frequently. We didn't have a whole lot in common, but I was lonely, he was lonely. For a while, it was enough to keep us together. Then, I got restless. Surely there was someone out there who was more compatible, someone who liked kids and could accept a ready-made family--a teacher, maybe, or an artist or a writer. Gary actually talked about returning to Vietnam. Amazingly, he said he felt more at home there. He knew what was expected of him and he did it well. And here I was, against the war, and, had I been free to do it, a potential protester. I broke it off. Gary was hurt. He said he thought we both needed each other. Dejected, he went back to college in his hometown and my life stayed relatively the same.
The same, that is, until summer came, along with vacation time. I decided to drive out to Iowa with my children to visit relatives on the farm. This would be fun for them. My parents would go too, following in another car. A road trip, just like "Easy Rider"! Ah, I could already smell the wheat fields, the hay-filled barns, hear the squeals of pigs, the whinnies of horses, the churning of combines. It would be rejuvenating. Exactly what we all needed.
But there was a slight hitch. My dad had a former student friend he wanted to stop and see. He lived halfway and it would give us a short break from driving. I was agreeable. It made sense. Plans were made to meet him at a restaurant and have dinner together. We even shared a bottle of wine and laughed about former times in my dad's classroom. Then the friend invited us to stop and see his home, meet his wife and children. Again, we thought it would be interesting and we weren't that far from our destination. We could still make it by nightfall. I was to follow behind his red truck in my car as my dad, taking my son with him, trailed behind me.
We took what seemed like back roads--dusty, bumpy, gravel paths through unfamiliar territory. I squinted to keep sight of the bouncing truck ahead and gripped the wheel. Then he did something unexpected. He passed the car ahead of him. I couldn't see the red truck any longer. How would I find my way to his house? I had to keep up with him! I'd have to pass, too. Dust was billowing up around us, but I floored the gas pedal and pulled out into the other lane just as another car came toward me. I remember thinking, right before the crash, that maybe with luck I could squeeze through. But then I opened my eyes to hear my mother at the car window saying my name over and over. The steering wheel felt hard against my cheek. A strange pillow, I thought, and why had I been sleeping? I raised my head to answer. Small bits of windshield glass were stuck to my face and one dropped into my lap. Next to me, my daughter was crying, a red gash on her forehead. Sirens wailed, lights flashed. Voices seemed to come from everywhere, "Try opening the door! Get the girl out! Pull harder!"
I had done this. I had tried to pass when I should have just waited. I could have killed us both. In fact, I should have died from the impact. It would have served me right. I must be a terrible driver. No, the young man in the red truck was the terrible driver! Why had he chosen to pass when he knew I was trying to follow him? I couldn't remember his name but now I hated him. And I hated the driver of the on-coming car. It was all his fault. Couldn't he have swerved off the country road to avoid me? He was a perfect stranger and he came into my life out of nowhere.
Leaving the local emergency room, I marveled that we had escaped serious injury. Scrapes and cuts, but no broken bones even. Still, I felt rotten about my poor judgement on the road. I was a failure at keeping things together, a weak mother who endangered her children, a woman who reacted poorly under pressure, a dittsy divorcee. I wanted to hide from my relatives. I couldn't handle living alone. I needed a man, a good driver, to take care of things, to keep us safe. When we got to the Iowa farm the next day, I sat down at the big, oak dining table to write a letter. "Dear Gary," it began.
Janis Boldenow Aug. 2008

Cover Me Please

I need your pictures, suggestions, or ideas for the cover of the Literary magazine youse guys are creating with your literature (stories). I also need ideas for a title and back cover.
Any help would be welcome - Frank

Garden Social

On my morning stroll through my tiny plot of garden, I notice that the plants seem to have personalities of their own. They all have their special language and express themselves in a variety of ways. For instance, it's clear that in these waning days of summer, some have already thrown in the towel.

The petunias have given and given and now they're too strung out to bloom anymore. Exhausted, a few lavender funnels hang on to the very ends of the stems that droop over clay pot edges. Next to them, the once purple fuzzed Liatrus spikes turn rusty, waiting for the fall, and then the snow, to turn them into white scepters that rule the garden once again. Even fanned out hasta leaves are curling and crumbling, making way for the young, naive green sprouts beneath them to debut in the spring. Peony leaves redden, impatience leaves yellow and coral bells brown.

But some flowers rally, like the mounds of flox that squeeze out a few more pink stars on the cut-back tips. They want to try again in the August sun, good sports that they are, knowing that this second blooming can never quite compare with the early summer display of petal fireworks. One or two daisies peek out shyly, long after their myriad friends have deserted.

And some plants are still biding their time, waiting for hotter "dog" days to force open their buds. Then white anemone will strut proudly in front of trimmed foliage behind them, towering sunflowers will nod their heavy heads to all the abject subjects below and offer their bounty of seeds to nature's needy. Milkweed pods will burst, gleefully spreading fluff on the wind everywhere.

And still others refuse to bloom at all. An antisocial hydranga folds its leaves across its chest as if to say, "I didn't bloom last year and you're out of luck now, too." A struggling blue balloon plant pouts until its petals finally break open to cry. As I continue my walk through the garden, I can't help but wonder what the trees are thinking. They might have been envying the flowers their colors this summer, but, oh, how they can brag in the fall!

seduction

It has been going on all summer: the flirting, the teasing, as when the heavy air slyly lifts the skirts of the gazebo to flap in the wind and the petticoat curtains make a shuffling sound as they scrape past each other and finally part and reveal. Bees buzz together, gathering around the sweating glass of yellow beer on the table. Twittering birds play hide and seek in the leaves. Where are they now? On that moving branch or is it only the wind brushing by again? Is that their song or the squeak of the awning as it strains against the metal supports? Nothing is plainly seen or heard; the gauze of the heat covers and muffles everything. Even the cat has given up looking, his eyes closed in sleep on the coolest step down from the deck. His fur moves up and down as he breathes, chin nested between paws, mouth slightly open.
You imagine you hear him warn: don't even think of working in the hot garden. The weeds can wait. Stay in your chair. Rest. Put your head back. Nothing really needs to be done. You have hours now to observe the sky, time the cloud's glide over one rooftop to another, check the openings of buds, measure their progress as they give birth to full blooms, with stamens like baby fists shaking in the air above pink petals.
You feel the heat, the trickle down the back, under the bra strap. You want to slip off the damp clothes, undo the sandals to walk in the grass, let the summer wrap its arms around you in a sweaty embrace. Dare to do nothing for now. The frost comes soon enough to cool the passion. Flowers fade, the bus pulls up, the school bell rings. The seduction ends.

Ok, so I recorded "Project Runway" and will spend the afternoon catching up, but I had a lovely evening with the writers. Such a nice group! Thanks for coming and just hanging out. It was cool, bugs were low in number, neighbors were quiet (except for Yip Yap), and the company was good. Can't wait for fall to come and class to start again.

Lin

Prayers For Connie

Send your good vibes and prayers out for Connie French
who had her appendix removed last night. Connie who was
in Creative Writing last fall was in New York attending a Buddhist retreat.
We love you Connie, get well soon.

Supreme Sacrifice for Class--Missing Project Runway

--Please join us pond-side for a summer writing get-together at my house. We'll do the usual 6:30 to 8:30 Wednesday night, August 6. I will provide some of the wine, beer, coffee, etc., but if you are fussy, please bring your own. Frank will require you to read your stories and write something new, but I'm not that bossy. Come to just visit and get inspiration or support for future endeavors as well.

--I live in Crestwood at approximately 127th and Route 83. If you are thinking of coming,
please contact me via e-mail (farkel4@yahoo.com)
so I can give specifics on address and directions, also I kind of need to know how many to expect. I look forward to seeing my old classmates as well as meeting the new ones. I hope you come.

--Oh yeah--no swimming in the pond please.

Lin

Send Me Stuff

Send me (or post)
1) your best stuff (pictures, essays, stories, criticism of teacher. . . )
2)your design for new 'Want-to-be -writer" top header
3)your impressions of the class
4)any thousand dollar bills you have
5) any gold you have
6) ideas you have (they don't have to be good)

Ch-CH-Changes

The 'Want-to-be-writer' blog will be going through changes as I begin to re-shape it to something fresh and new. If you have any ideas - please post them. As no one is currently posting on this blog - I will be using it as a message board more than anything else.

Keep Writing,

Frank

Maybe There is a God

Sometimes in writing this blog, I wonder if my words are just going out to the universe's garbage dump. To rot or whatever but lately I have noticed things changing. These maybe small trivial changes but they are changes nonetheless. Weeks ago I wrote about Plucky the cigarette smoking duck who seemed to be advocating reading to young people. He was prominately displayed on the Frankfort Public Library website. Last week, the library staff changed the website and poof, no more Plucky. The new website is . . . different. To me, it has a less childish feel to it. I don't know if that is good or bad.
Frankfort Library Website
Point number two - I wrote an essay which stated how uninspired I was by Frankfort's fireworks display of 2008. Well, for people who live in this area, public access channel 6 shows many Frankfort events replayed and I happened to see a replay of the fireworks show. It was surprising to me because the people who made the replay took out the terrible music we the people who showed up had to listen to and replaced it with instrumental traditional tunes such as John Phillip Susa's. Much better. However, the show itself still stunk - this time I counted 15 straight of the same firework. I had only thought there was 10 straight.
Point number three - the evolution of my thinking - which really does not amount to a hill of beans but in terms of the creative writing class - I really have come a long way. When i started the class a year ago, I wanted only one thing - a class that I could use to encourage my wriiting, to get it out from the shell in the closet of the basement of the abandoned building of my mind that it was living in. I also wanted others to get their writing out into the world. I think that we, me and youse guys, have done that well. But I am left feeling that there is more that I can do with this class. It is just that I am not sure what that more is. Do you have any suggestions ? Frank

Haiku of This Day

Always, and again
Morning brings the light to us,
To do what we will.

Writing class and its evolution

I just want to say I am enjoying the evolution of the writing class. It seems to flow in a wonderful way, coinciding with the wishes of the group. I always feel I get something out of being there, though I have to fight with my own resistance. Writing is good for me! The emotions that I release through the written word are often subtle, yet felt. More recently, we've been discussing perhaps meeting to work on reiki and other energy work. This discussion became a storytelling process in itself, all relevant to the writing class. I like that the group feels safe enough to want to share even deeper of ourselves. Each class is an adventure.
Bev

My "L" assignment for class

Lick, lick
Lapping the nectar
I do not hear the sounds
but imagine them in his
tiny ears
The jeweled creature,
decked out in irridescant
cloak of green and gold,
feeds quickly, then moves
to the next trumpet flower
Not picky, the artificial
reds and greens do not
deter him from his
dining pleasure.

His wings
beat quickly,sustaining him
in resting place as his long
bill goes in and out,
in rhythm he soothes
me into meditative
dreams.

He is focused,
in the moment, intent on
fueling himself for the
journey ahead. Drinking,
drinking, filling his tiny
being with nectar.

Stopping at my
feeder, I am honored
he is refueling here.
Like the hummingbird,
I too am on a journey,
and my heart opens
feeling nature’s kinship.
I travel within me,
migrating to a deeper
sense of me, sipping at
spiritual nectar to sustain
my path to enlightenment.

As nectar fills up this tiny creature,
for the long road ahead, I
too need similar
fuels to energize my soul,
quiet time, surrounded by
things I love. Yet, the more
active creative pursuits i so
enjoy also
help my migration south from mind
to heart to soul, where warmth and
compassion welcome me.

I do not have to fly over great
distances, to warm climates, to
escape the cold that looms, and
realize that right here is where
I need to be, with my hungry
soul awaiting me.

And then, like the hummingbird
who flies to tree branches,
to rest, to digest,
I settle into the cozy chair
embracing peace,
enfolding love, letting
it settle into my being
for too much, too fast
leaves
me little time to appreciate
its subtle impact.

The hummingbird’s bill allows
him to drink deep into the flower
center, I too must tap into
the deepest realms of me
to access all of me,
where complete
nourishment lies.

Quickly, so quickly the bird’s
wings move
in rhythm with my excited
heartbeats,as he moves up and down,
backwards and forwards, an
acrobat in flight,
dazzling my eyes with
magical maneuvers,
so too do I
need to be flexible, to move
in all directions, to fully explore
who I am, leaving nothing
uncovered.

The hummingbird feeds from
hundreds of flowers in a day,
to sustain him in his long journey,
I too must tap into all offerings
of life, accepting each being encountered
unveiling the
mysteries of who I am.

Perhaps I will not find the
truth of me, the hummingbird
does not always survive,
predators like cats, and
pesticides and electric fences
claim its demise
Perhaps my own truth
will not be found, for
fears lurk in hidden recesses,
ready to pounce

The hummingbird does
not seem bothered by
what lies ahead,
only taking care of himself,
right now
His life is a lesson for me
and with gratitude,
I accept his teachings.

Beverly Bronson 2008

L Words- the rest of the story

The L Words

“Shut your damn mouth.” She thrust her hands palms toward him for emphasis. Tim’s mouth was stuck in limbo. The words he was going to say were in the process of being abandoned but the words replacing them had not yet been formed. This produced an idiotic look on Tim’s face somewhat like one of total surprise. Dumbfounded. To say the least, he had not expected her to say what she had just said.
“Just keep quiet.” she commanded, putting one finger to his lips. She watched his face, looking for signs of acceptance. He sighed and looked away.
“It’s just that . . .I “ He stopped short as she put up her hands again.
“No. Tim, you promised. WE promised,” She looked him in the eye. “Remember - our pact: No L words. Not now, not ever.” He flinched as she said the last few words. The pact, that damn pact. If only he had not made that promise. But that was the only way she would agree to go out with him. He remembers that moment as if it was happening right in front of him.
* * * * *
She was beautiful but not too beautiful, I mean, there was no one thing dazzling about her and yet there she was talking to him, holding his hand, gazing into his eyes. She had approached him and asked him to sit with her at a table far from the bar.
‘Might as well,’ he thought, ‘I know I don’t have anything else going.’ It all felt so surreal to him. He was not the type of guy who went to bars and he was not the type of guy who went out looking to pick up women. He had been walking home when he heard his favorite song coming from this bar. He felt it was a sign or an omen of good things to come. So he sat down at the bar and ordered a drink, a Long Island ice tea - something big so he could take his time and something strong enough to wipe away his pain, at least for that night. He never finished it.
“Hi there,” she had come up behind him and tapped him on his shoulder. “I was wondering if you would like to sit with me. I have a table over there.” She pointed. The bartender gave her an orangish red drink. Her eyes, they seemed sad yet they seemed happy too. A mystery. He was a sucker for mysteries especially if they involved women. A no brainer. He nodded yes and she grabbed his hand and led the way. She was a very forward woman. This she proved when they sat down.
“Look I can tell you are wounded. I know the look well. I am too.” She locked on to him with her eyes. “Lets spare ourselves the heartache of rehashing went wrong. Lets talk about us and what we can do together.”
He had not been expecting her to be strong but he liked strong women. That was his problem - sooner or later they grew tired with his lack of strength. At least, that is what they said. Well, at least that is what Cathy, his latest ex had said. “You are so whimpy. Take a stand for once in your life. Live your life. Don’t let it live you.” “I’ll think about that.” was his answer, which in hindsight might not have been the right thing to say. She walked out screaming under her breath. That was yesterday. Today it had sunk in on him that she was gone. He had been thinking about her when he got off the bus, which is why he did not notice that he had gotten off at the wrong stop. A quick look around to set his bearings, told him he was only a block or two from his regular stop. He would walk the rest of the way home. It was a nice pleasant evening, in the high sixties tempwise and there were no clouds in sight. And then there was that song.
“I am ready for anything,” the strong woman said, “long term, short term, even something just for tonight. What about you ?” Her eyes grabbed his attention and held it. There was something special about her, something magical. He had forgotten about Cathy. He had forgotten about his heartbreak at losing her. All he could think of was this strange mystery woman.
“Um,” he said, “this is awkward, um, could you tell me your name ?”
“Marla,” she said. “and yours?”
“Tim,” he replied, “Tim Weeks. I’m a . . .” She put her hand up and stopped him.
“Names are all we need to know right now. Lets just leave it at that. I am currently known as Marla Starsinger but that will change after I sign the divorce papers. Don’t worry, its not being contested and there are no children involved. There was another woman and he is living with her right now. I even like her too. So everyone is happy.”
“Hey, I thought you said we weren’t going to talk about our past.”
“Oh did I, hmm.” she laughed, “well okay no more of that - I just didn’t want you to worry.”
“Aren’t you worried about me ?” he asked. “ Don’t you want to know what my story is ?”
“No.” she laughed again, took a sip of her drink, looked at him, and laughed even louder. “Don’t look so wounded. I am a woman. I trust my intuition. I know you are what I want and what I need in a man.” She giggled and took a quick sip. “At least for tonight.”
He wondered about that last remark. Did she mean he would be a one night stand ? He had never been a one night stand before, expect for a couple of terrible first dates but they did not end in sex or begin with sex or even get anywhere near sex.
“I hate to say this,” he said as he looked in her eyes, “but I’m not that type of guy.” He watched her reaction.
“Oh really,” she said mockingly, “we’ll just see about that.” She stood up and took a large gulp of her drink, nearly draining it. She grabbed Tim by his tie. “Let’s go big boy.” Surprisingly, Tim did not resist. She was a strong woman.
She lead him like that for blocks, past various onlookers who either commented on this ridiculous sight or pretended not to notice. She never once veered from her goal which it turns out was her apartment. When she got to her door, she let go of his tie and turned around to face him. He was half a foot taller than her even with heels so she stood on a step higher than him and looked him in the face, nose to nose and said:
“This is where our journey ends, big boy, ” she paused to watch his face, “unless of course you promise me something.” Tim was a more than a bit confused and when he was confused, he usually did nothing. He never acted rashly, that is, without considering consequences. He was a patient person content to let the world present what it will before choosing his actions.
“What ?” he asked. There was a brief pause so he added more words. “What do you want me to promise ?” She moved a bit on her stair to gain more room between them.
“I want you to promise me that no matter what happens between us, you will never use the L word to me.” Tim was even more confused now.
“The L word ? What L word ?”
“You know, “ she looked up at the ceiling as if it were written there. “the L word. The word people use to say that they are very attracted to each other. I L word you.” She looked at him defiantly. “Understand ?” He nodded yes but that confused her. So she once again stared nose to nose at him. “I’ll say it once again.” There was a hardness in her voice. “It is goodbye forever unless you agree never to say the L word to me. So tell me yes or no - do you agree ?”
Tim caught himself from uttering his catchphrase (I’ll have to think about that.) He knew this woman meant business. He knew the events of this evening had been quite strange and even a little scary but there was something about her, something unexplainable, something that felt right. He looked at her one more time and there it was - that sparkle in her eyes and he knew he would agree to almost anything at that moment.
And the rest, they say, is history. Marla was now known as Marla Weeks and has been that way for twelve years. Tim was hopelessly in L word with her but never had been able to tell her so. Tonight on their anniversary, he tried again and again she held him to his promise.
“Could you at least tell why I can’t use the L word with you ?” he asked.
“I will, “ she said with a wink as she turned out the lights and pulled up the covers, “but not tonight. Come to bed dear.”

Sis(sy), (no)Boom, Bah (humbug)

There are certain things that don’t seem to go together no matter how hard we try to make them: peanut butter and liverwurst, kids and quiet, politicians and selflessness, and my wife’s idea of good fireworks and my idea of good fireworks. I believe fireworks should be loud, colorful and stimulating. My wife likes the colorful and stimulating but could do without the loud. Sissy!
So after years of watching the fireworks show in Oak Forest (part of the week-long OakFest featuring some good but loud bands), we decided to try something new, the fireworks in Frankfort. Frankfort is a wonderful place to raise your kids - the town is constantly trying to make life wonderful for them by offering various programs and celebrations. The fireworks show however is not one of them. The show was short (thankfully), punctuated by patriotic music (the kind only John Melloncamp, Willie Nelson, Steve Miller, and various country artists can do). I am proud to be an American but I like my fireworks sans people singing about being proud to be an American. Why? Because with the music blaring, there is no ahhing and wowing at the visual show. How loud was the music ? I could not hear what my wife sitting next to me was saying.
Was that a bad thing ? I’d better say yes. (Sissy!)
The music was distracting but the worst part of the fireworks show was the lack of booms. Not one of many explosions in the sky had the big echoing boom I have come to expect from a fireworks display. It was as if someone had put an anti-boom chip on this year’s event.
I have seen louder fireworks on TV. Walking back to our car, we heard fireworks from the next town over - yes, Mokena had booms. For me and the rest of the Frankfort faithful, no booms.
And now comes the bah humbug part of my review. I go to fireworks shows to be ooded and awed, to be wowed and blown away, to be dazzled by what is happening all around me. Frankfort’s fireworks did none of that. They had nothing I had not seen before but worse than that they had no imagination. For instance, they shot a big firework with red ,white, and blue parts - pretty cool - again and again and again. Over ten times in a row. Then it was time to shoot the red and yellow firework, you guess it, over ten times in a row. And then the golden rain firework ten times in a row. And on and on. The only break in this structure was the grand finale. When it was over there was no mass applause, just a mass exit (which was far more entertaining than the show itself).
I guess I have been spoiled by the fireworks in Oak Forest. The fireworks there are exciting, as in dangerously exciting. And loud as in you can’t hear for five minutes after the show. And unpredictable as in you never know when or where the next rocket to the sky will explode. For me, Oak Forest is fireworks heaven,
Because of my attraction to loud fireworks, we steadily sat closer and closer to the guys shooting up the fireworks. Last year we were about as close as one could get (50 meters or so away, 47 meters of which were behind a chain link fence - the other three meters were patrolled by teenagers in uniform swinging nightsticks and saying things ‘like you have to get back for your own safety’. They were, of course, members of the traffic control squad and as such they had the authority to yell at you. “I told you to get back.’ More frightening than them were the little kids 7 and under running blindly back and forth with sparklers - they will burn you and burn you a lot as they run back in forth in the aforementioned three meters, so you do not really want to be in their way unless of course you like getting burned by cute little 3 year old future arsonists.
So last year we were sitting close to the fireworks, watching them explode and ooing and awwing, when a gentle little wind began to blow toward us. It was at that point that the fireworkers decided to shoot their ‘golden rain’ fireworks. Normally, these fireworks explode and gracefully maintain their golden glow as they fall to the earth, burning out at say 100 or so feet. This causes people to wonder what would happen if these sparks alit upon the earth. It is a question with out an answer because they never do - until last year that is. Ten or so tiny sparks found their way onto the heads and hands of various people, one of whom happened to be my wife. For whole next year, I have had to listen to her story as it grew larger and larger in scope due to daily embellishment. Currently, it stands as a red hot piece of napalm burning half her head of hair away. (Sissy!)
Now I have my comeback story in which Frankfort’s fine display of color in the sky will degrade into a show of such un-delight that some patrons are still asleep, a coma induced of boredom and homogenized patriotism. Super-(bah humbug).
Frank

Back from the dead

Sorry for the long delay between posts. I have been sick and I have been dealing with some . . . stuff. Internal stuff - enough said about that. I will start posting soon - maybe tomorrow and maybe tonight. I want all people in the class to keep writing no matter what so I guess I will follow my own doctrine. I am ready to rise from the dead so to speak and I hope all you guys are too. Lets get writing again.
Frank

Hello friends! Surprise! I am actually posting something on the blog! After visiting Bev and Frank at the art fair on Saturday, I have been inspired to keep writing. I have also posted a short message on my own blog (see link at right--Diane the Soulsearcher.) I hope to do this more often, although there will be a [hopefully] brief respite while I am in Colorado for a week beginning on Wednesday. So, please feel free to comment. But whether you comment or not, please keep up with your own writing! Inspiration is contagious.

I've posted my homework assignment on my blog (see the list on the right) as I don't want to duplicate my stories and bore you all to death. Besides, that will force you all to visit the blog and make the visitor counter go up. I am attempting to keep up with that crazy demanding class and teacher the best I can from home--even if I am lying on some exotic beach or something.

Miss you all already!

Lin

If You think this is Dumb then You are an Idiot

“There are two kinds of people in the world,” he said, “dummies and idiots. The only difference between the two is idiots think they know something.”
I protested. “There has to be more than two kinds of people. What about scientists and scholars, they can’t be dumb ?”
“That’s because they’re idiots. I just told you, idiots think they know better. You thought you could find an exception to my theory because you are an idiot. Dummies would not care. Dummies just live life and don’t ask questions.”
“So, if I just accept what you say as truth then I am an dummy.”
“No, the idiot part is still trying to figure out what is going on. The dummy part of you comes out when you sleep and eat and whatever else it is that you do.”
“Excuse me for being an idiot then,” I said, “but I just thought of something relevant to understanding what it is that you are saying.”
“Say whatever you want,” he replied as he turned over slightly. “The idiot part of me will listen but I warn you it is a small part of me. Don’t expect much from the dummy part of me, especially now that it is nearing my naptime.”
“You don’t do much do you ? “ I asked retorically since I did not want his answer. I really wanted to state my profound thought . “It seems to me that the states of dummy and idiot are similiar to Yin and Yang, in that there is an inner dummy and an inner idiot in everyone. The inner dummy lives in the moment, eats, runs, plays, and other things while the inner idiot tries to make sense of it all. “
I thought I had summed it up pretty good but when I looked at my companion, he was asleep. I touched him on the face and he woke up but not happily.
“Why the (word deleted) did you wake me up ? I was just beginning to enjoy your visit. “ He added a snarl for effect.
“I wanted to know what you thought about what I just said.” I countered. I was right. I knew it.
“Why ? “
“So you add to it or help fix some of the mistakes I might have made. “ I knew that I had not made any so I guess I just wanted his praise.
“Well, I would be an idiot to tell you what I think because what I think is how I see the world which is massively confusing. I mean one day, smoking is good because it calms you down the next day it causes cancer. One day, the universe spins around the earth the next the earth spins around the sun. One day, God creates the earth in six days and the next day, he slips in dinosaurs which somehow gets left out of the bible. What I am trying to tell you, in a nice way, is that to think you have some sort of final answer about what the world is, proves that you are an idiot. And if you think that not trying to find out what is going on is okay also proves that you are a dummy. “
“The search for truth is essentail to our make-up but reliance upon what we find is folly. Yet, we do that everyday because no one can be in the idiot state for more than a few moments at a time. And we have to live life no matter what we find out about the world. There is no escaping that. And when you are a dummy, you don’t care about what the idiot in you has found out. When you eat pizza, a really good deep dish pizza, all you care about is how good it tastes and whether or not you can eat another bite. That’s it. Nothing more.” He rolled over and started to go back to sleep.
‘Wow,’ I thought, ‘he must be serious because he used pizza, his favorite food in an example.’ I looked at his sprawled body resting there in the cat perch, his tail tucked carefully between his legs. He looked happy. And content. And asleep. I knew I would be risking a bite or two if I woke him again. I wanted to ask him about nuclear missiles but I thought better of it. Next time. Maybe.
I wondered if he would call me a idiot or a dummy for waking him up. My guess was that I was being both.

Welcome New Writers

I want to welcome the new writers who came to the class last night:
Sharon, June, and Pam. I also want to thank you for making class last night
such a fun experience. I hope you enjoy this blog.
Frank

I need you - part 2

I thank all of you who responded. I have added more to the story and corrected some mistakes that no noticed - such as the crazy lady was named Sara on one line and Clara on the next line. I still need your valuable feedback. I won't flunk you if are too critical. I promise scout's honor. so once again -
I have started a new story and I need your help. It is on the depressing writings of Frank blog.
Specifically, I need to know if the story keeps your interest, entertains you and if there are major grammatical errors. I also could use any other feedback, you might give except ones about personal hygiene (aka you stink).
Thank You,
Frank
How come no one is posting ?????
this means you Mutti and Lin.

At long last spring - a class(less?) essay

It was a bitter winter - not only in terms of temperature.Chris thought that the difficult point was making the decision to divorce. However once made, she had an immediate sense of release and relief. Soon, she would be free and then she would create a new and exciting life for herself. She was only forty-four. People told her she didn’t even look that old. She would soon join the world of singles; the world of fun and foolishness.But it didn’t work out that way. the lawyers ripped and tore and sucked her dry. Yes, she was initially finally free but she had nowhere to live and nothing left to live on.
Chris was devestated. She was upset. She was hysterical and worst of all, she voiced her complaints to anyone who would listen. She complained so much that pretty soon there was no one left to complain to. Now she was alone, all alone.
Who could she turn to? Maybe that mechanic, her neighbor, who kept oogling her when she took out the garbage ? Or maybe the retired eighty-three year old lady who asked her for rides to the grocerey store. She thought about asking the local pastor but she had stopped being religious years ago, about the same time her marriage started going bad. What good had a church wedding been? It certainly didn’t promise a comfortable , loving, dependable relationship with her husband. Come to think of it, the only person she could think of that was that way (loving, dependable, etc.) was -
Her Cat! Her cat would listen and give unconditional love. She even thought that each meow had a slightly different tone to it, as if Kitty was really giving her advice. How interesting, she thought. My cat will never betray me, it just purrs on my lap twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week., staring at me faithfully with those glowing yellow eyes. She hypnotizes me with her unwaqvering stare. I don’t need two legged friends in my life, four legged ones are just fine for me. God, I love her. She is my confidant. I shall never be betrayed by her. All I have to do is just clean her litterbox, make sure she has her daily tuna fish and I have her undying love. And she has at least nine lives to hear all my troubles. Yahoo, she is better than a therapist who charges.
Pretty soon, Chris had two cats, then four, then six, and before you could say too many, she had forty-eight. The house began to have a distinct stench which could be detected a block away. Pretty soon those lousy neighbors were complaining, saying that her cats were getting into their garages and their kids’ sandboxes. Someone came out from the Animal Welfare Society to investigate this ‘cat lady.’ Yes, Chris had turned into the neighborhood crazy cat lady.
The Humane Society declared the place disgusting and took all the cats except for one, Kitty, the original friend of Chris. Chris had saved her by hiding Kitty in her blouse. Now workers were coming from Catholic Charities to clean the house up. Good timing, too because it was spring, at last.

this was done by the entire class _ I did the title - Frank

Anger

I am angry about war. Why does it have to be such a power thing? Why does one country have to one-up another one? I liked the times of the 60’s, when it was peace and love and all that good stuff. Love children, flower power. Why cannot we live in peace now? Why is there so much anger? I’ve felt it enough in my own life, why does it continue to surround me? Why are people so, so unhappy? Are they angry because they had a rotten childhood? Are they angry because they want to be right? I think a good way to be less angry is to write about it. Today in writing class as I wrote about anger, I felt it dissipating from me. I realize I have been holding onto my anger for a long time, like a good friend. But I think now I can let it go. It does not do me any good and keeps me stuck and unable to move on. It has been my companion for too long. I wonder how I will feel when I let it go. Will I feel empty? Will I want to fill up that emptiness with food? Or Sugar? Will other feelings replace it? Could joy move in? These questions I ponder. This anger has felt like a dark piece of coal sitting in my stomach, hard, dark, unmovable. But today after I wrote about my anger, the coal seemed to get softer, change into rainbow hues of color, and began to move around. Suddenly wings sprouted and this thing inside of me began to fly, upward. Through my heart it moved and up into my mouth and flew out through my teeth and into the Center woods. I watched it dance with the cottonwood fuzzies and then it vanished from sight.

I have set my anger free and in the process have freed my soul!

Marlotus O’Keefe 2008

Story teaser

he Laughing Witch - a tale of silliness and sorcery

“Oooh,” she cooed as she laid the cards down in front of me.
“What, do that mean ?” I asked, “something bad?” I was in my dumb eager to know the future mode. I have used various disguises from time to time and I have found this one to be the most useful, probably because it was the most believable. It is not that hard for me to play dumb and eager.
The woman in front of me was unlike any tarot card reader I have ever seen. She was pretty but not buxom, or beguiling. Her hair was an ordinary brown (could have used a few highlights) and her clothes were , well, eclectic is the best description I can give. There were busy designs on both her blouse and skirt but strangely enough they did not seem to clash despite being vastly different in color, tone and decade of origin. The blouse seemed something out of the sixty’s and the skirt something out of her granny’s closet.
“Wow!” she exclaimed. This outburst seemed to catch her by surprise. She apologized to me. “I’m sorry to be so unprofessional but I have never seen such cards in a spread.” She stopped and thought about what she just said and then she looked at the cards again, looked at me, looked at the cards and . . .
“You should go.” she said suddenly as she got up from her chair. Her tone had changed dramatically from fun loving frolic to dead serious. “You are wasting my time.”


The rest of the story will posted on my blog later today - FRANK

Fallout from BOB

First of all, I want to thank all the people who responded to my essay on the great god BOB. Thank You. Next, I want to clear up some misconceptions, some people might have had about God/Bob. Bob Vila is not god - if he was then Sears would not have merged with K-mart. He is merely an image of god, which gives him incredible powers none-the-less. How else could anyone explain why people would like to fix-up their homes and make a TV show about that popular? In my dad's day, home improvement meant fixing what was broken, squeaking, or meeting disapproval of my mother, i.e. How many times have I told you to fix that roof ? (Editor's note: the word roof could be replaced by a number of other words such as table, chair, light, hole in wall, washing machine, TV, stair, railing, and kid.) Somehow, my mother expected that my father, being a man, knew something about fixing whatever needed fixing. My father, God/Bob have mercy on his soul, was the worst fixit person I have ever seen. He once tried to 'even' out the kitchen door by shaving a little off the bottom. After, seven tries and a quarter of the door removed, he decided that the kitchen didn't need a door. After that my family learned to hide their precious items whenever my dad had a saw in hand. My dad once decided to fix the TV as it seems the picture was shrinking. For a period of a week, the picture moved steadily towards the middle, compressing the picture from the top and bottom. Each day my dad would cheer us up, claiming it was still watchable. Finally, we were looking at a single horizontal line in the middle of the tube. Thus, it was that we marched over to Walgreens with every removalable tube from the set. We used the tube-tester for about an hour and found several bad tubes. We got new ones and then my dad found out that he did not know where these tubes went. The It-fits-so-it-must-go-there theory was invented that day. We then turned on the set and it worked !!! For about five minutes or so and then someone said: hey, what is that smell and someone else said hey, isn't that fire coming from the back of the TV set, and sure enough it was. At that point, the unthinkable happened - we turned off the TV set - in the middle of the Jackie Gleason show, no less. Somehow the fire was stopped, no damage to anything else except the pressed wood back of the set which was slightly charred. I think that God/Bob was smiling down on us that day because the TV set worked after that (for another month or two).
After that we always took our failing sets to my uncle who fixed TV sets for a living. And that is how I found out about my uncle's vast record collection (via the Columbia record club gods).
But getting back to my original point, Bob Vila is God, Norm is Jesus (carpenter connection there), the guys who now do "This Old House" are the apostles, Paige (Trading Spaces) is the virgin Mary, and Frank (the designer from Trading Spaces) is gay. The guys from Orange County Choppers are angels (Hell's Angels) and Nascar is organized Demolition Derby. The four Horsemen are Bob O'Reilly, Sean Hannity, Pat Robertson, and the Rev. Al Sharpton.
Moses is wandering still and Ty Pennington is Judas.
Well that is all for now. I do have one question for Diane though. If I make a religion out of Bob Vila worship, can I get tax exempt status ?
Frank

In BOB we trust

This and other wonderful essays are on my journal blog - come visit.

The tuesday spiritual group was waiting for what I would say - perhaps, I should not have said anything but it was my turn so I felt as if I should. The group is not very diverse in nature but they are open-minded. I stick out in two ways:
1) I am the youngest member and
2) I am the only MAN.
Thus, I felt it my duty and honor to represent the man's point of view to these spiritual seekers.
The question posed to us was : How do we see God ? Is God an old man in a white robe that has not shaved in years ? Or so you visualize God in a different way ?
Several ladies stated their views and provided the group what I would call 'enlightened' views of God. One lady stated that to define God is to limit God. I agree. But sometimes we need to define God in order to have a focal point for our prayers. The problem is most people don't have a good visual idea of God other than that old guy in a white robe. People need a useful image of God. An image that shows God doing something for you - ie. helping you in your hour (or in my case, years) of need. With that in mind, my mind came up with an image of God in the form of
BOB VILA
Now when I said that to the group, the ladies collectively stated in no uncertain terms that they were not certain who Bob Vila was. I knew that my task was formitable. Most guys, even gay guys, know who Bob Vila is. He is the patron saint of home remodeling; he is the original host of "THIS OLD HOUSE" and he single handedly (editor's note: he did use two hands) created the home fix-it craze that still sweeps america. Bob Vila was immortalized in the sitcom HOME IMPROVEMENT (which starred Tim Allen). Bob Vila is the image of the wise not too old guy who helps you fix up your life for free - and that I thought is what makes a good image (for me) of GOD, someone who'll help you fix up the mess you call your life. For free.
I still think that is a good image for me but the ladies where having none of it, especially Bev who fell asleep when I was talking. Somehow, the discussion changed directions and we began to talk about burial plans. My plan there did not go over too well either. I said I wanted to be left somewhere out in the woods where the wildlife could feed off of me. Bev told me that she would have no part of it and that if I felt like dying I should take myself out into the woods. So this weekend I am heading to the woods hoping that BOB will save my ass.
Frank

Invasion of the Body

Invasion of the Body

I am feeding a stranger multiple times a day, every day. It's true that I feel guilty about it, but I do it anyway. The stranger doesn't care and wants only to be fed. His pleas seem to surface at various times of weakness, especially prompted by boredom, uncertainty of what to do next, lack of purpose and anger. It's not a logical hunger, not a need for nutrition. Instead, the call comes from a void, an emptiness, a hole that demands to be filled with cheese, crackers, sour cream, cookies, trail mix, mayonnaise, peanuts, but especially cheese--cheddar, Swiss, Havarti, Monteray Jack, Colby, Munster, cheese, cheese, and more cheese. I see it as a work in progress, filling up the hole. The job never ends.
The stranger is building a monument to its unfulfilled need in the middle of my body. It's a soft mound that can best be viewed from the side, in profile, like a criminal's mug shot. The consequences are frustrating. Jackets won't button, last year's clothes don't fit, shoes are a struggle to tie, unkind observers ask "When is the baby due?", heartburn wells up. I've asked the uninvited guest to vacate the premises but he refuses, saying he knows an available piece of property when he sees it. Why leave?
Because of the monument, I've decided not to attend my high school class reunion and I probably won't put on a bathing suit to swim this summer. As I see it, the only cure is a full-time job that takes me away from the kitchen and my best friend, the refrigerator. Or a passion greater than that of the stranger's. What could that be? Acting in Hollywood? Painting a great work of art? Playing Rachmaninoff's Third Concerto? Writing? Whatever it is, it will have to be very powerful, very demanding, a Superman to defeat the stranger that lives within. He will not concede easily without a fight. He desires his snack, every day, lots of calories, cheese, cheese, and more cheese. Pass the olives, please.