This 76 year old returns to college to take Dr. Kathleen Hudson’s Creative Writing class to develop story writing skills. It’s felt like most of my stories have been locked behind some doorway, deep inside my brain. I hoped developing those skills would become the key to unlocking that doorway.
Before class started, I created a blog, WhereIDwell.net. I bought a $110 Apple Pencil, which I intended to use taking class notes directly on my iPad. Back at my cabin, where I physically dwell, over a glass of wine, I would edit, add links and transfer those notes to my blog.
One story, still in the writingpractice stage, takes place when I worked for IBM. A few times a year, one or two employees from sites across the U.S. would be selected to attend IBM’s highly regarded Systems Research Institute. At that time, SRI was located on East 42nd St in Manhattan. Over 10 weeks, college graduate level courses in systems architecture, computer science, math and logic, were taught by respected PhDs. I was honored to be one of those attendees.
On our first day we were given a group orientation, the kind of advice that sticks in your head.
An instructor told us, there are two types of people, ”BE’ers” and ”SEE’ers”.
He then drew a huge outline of Manhattan on a white board. Scattered dots all over the island. Those dots represented safe areas. He said, “pay close attention, trust the hairs on the back of your necks getting from one safe area to another. Those safe areas are constantly changing”.
Today I see that as a metaphor pertaining to writing stories. Those dots may trigger memories or the inspiration for stories, poetry, song… all writing. They can appear anywhere, even in a place we’ve never noticed them before.
As Writers, I see us constantly shifting between ”BE’ers” and ”SEE’ers”. Yes, we must remain close observers, but in our writing, we also must BE what we SEE.
Well, I didn’t end up using my $110 Apple Pencil, I used pen and notebook. I did have those glasses of wine.
Dr. Kathleen Hudson, during these 6 short weeks, you have shown me that doorway inside my brain has always been open.
You’ve provided an amazing list of guest speakers.
Class time, required reading, assignments and, in very large degree, my fellow students, have combined to convinced me, we all have amazing stories to tell.
My stories, of course are written for me. But I also know, once completed, I have Something of Value to leave for those that come after me, along with the confidence that I will tell my stories in compelling ways.
As I read this book I’ll be adding personal thoughts the book generates. I’ll also add direct quotes with page references. From time to time I’ll review my entries and highlight those that are most significant to me.
Chapter 1 – Everybody is Talented, Original and Has Something Important to Say
p. 21 The imagination works slowly and quietly.
p. ??? “Freed them from the clouds of automatic verbiage.”
When I spent the summer of 1963 in southern California after high school graduation, I was in a small apartment. Young neighbor girls had seen me. They came to the door one day, “come see our play”. I did, it was alive with their young imaginations. It was impossible not to be drawn into their excitement, their world, I loved it. One girl took me to meet her big sister, who was supposedly watching them. She was sunning herself in “an itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny, yellow polka dot bikini”. A little added reward for being a good audience.
p. ? If you have no friend to encourage you, invent one. {I write emails to Jesse Wyeth. At some point I’ll post some to Letters Written and Answered}
p. ? Practice with all your intelligence and love.
p. ? Write to understand your own feelings better.
p. 33 A walk a little too long releases creative thoughts by placing you fully in the moment. The thoughts come slowly, little inward bombs bursting quietly. Once the creative thoughts come, write them, but do not grind them by endlessly rewriting, striving for perfection. Let them be, make room for more.
Chapter 6 – When you write, write in the moment, that is, write what you are feeling deep inside. Don’t write at or about something, write from within it. Others, when reading, will feel what you are feeling. p.42 “In other words, it is when you are really living in the present – working, thinking, lost, absorbed in something you care about very much, that you are living spiritually.”
This writing in the moment, becoming lost, totally absorbed, comes most often for me when I’m writing to someone, someone I care deeply about.
Chapter 9 p. 60 – Example of my preceding bold text…
“The sound of the wind grew louder, and I raised myself on my elbow and looked out. Yes, it was blowing hard. A rooster, looking very silly his feathers all this-way-and-that, scurried across the yard toward the comfort of the coop.” [from an excerpt by Elsa Krouch]
This goes on, I’m transported into that moment, place and time. That’s what I want from my writing. That’s what I take from this book.
Ueland write of the excerpt:
” This writing, you see, is very beautiful. It is impossible to cut it. I try to take out a sentence here or there, but cannot bring myself to do it. They are all too good and necessary and contribute too much. And so it is with Art, literature, belles lettres, or whatever you want to call it.”
belles-lettres meaning: essays, particularly with literary and artistic criticism… French phrase meaning ‘beautiful’ or ‘fine’ writing.
Interesting here, to me, is the use of a single quote around a word or phrase. I use this quite often in my writing or comments on Facebook when I either cannot, or do not want to, use bold letters or italics to emphasize.
p. 73 – Think of telling a story, not of writing it.
Chapter XIV
Whatever you write will reveal your personality, and whatever you are will show through your writing.
Chapter XVI
Use your imagination.
Ueland’s last line…
And if it [this book] has given you the impulse to write one small story, I am pleased.
I want to just briefly add, something that Brenda Ueland did in her book revealed to me a great deal about Brenda Ueland the person. She truly cared about her readers and students. Throughout the book, she not only pulled from hundreds of examples of writers that were examples of what she was telling us, she also wrote in the style that pulled me into a belief that what she was telling me was, in fact, the truth.
On what became a memorable night, not long after we first met, JB and I went to a little bar in Old Town Manassas, Virginia. Those of us here of a certain age will remember the name of the aging lead singer that night, Gary Lewis was performing live.
Schreiner University has announced its annual Texas Writers Conference and the Coffeehouse Series performance by Christopher “Rooster” Martinez. Both events will be free and open to the public.
The events will take place on April 13, with the Texas Writers Conference held from 3-5 p.m. in the Junkin Family Ministry Center on the Schreiner campus, and the Coffeehouse Series performance, which will be from 7-9 p.m. at the Trailhead Beer Garden outdoor stage at Schreiner University, 2100 Memorial Blvd.
Notes and a link for my presentation at the Trailhead follow…
My name is William, William McHone. For me, becoming a writer means becoming a story teller. On a Valentine’s Day, many years ago, I left a note to a special friend. I took to calling Jennifer Beckwith, JB. I wrote many notes to JB, always signing them with a scripted Wm. JB took to calling me Wmmm.
On what became a memorable night, not long after we first met, JB and I went to a little bar in Old Town Manassas, Virginia. Those of us here of a certain age will remember the name of the aging lead singer that night, Gary Lewis was performing live.
This is a bit of flash fiction, for me a flash memory.
I remember the night we danced to Gary Lewis & The Playboys. You sang every word to This Diamond Ring. We danced nearly every song. That night, as the music died, we walked hand in hand, across the narrow street to our dimly lit inn, my heart was racing with excitement.
You unlocked the door to your room, turned to me and, for the very first time, our lips met. That kiss was like none other, before or since – softer, shorter than I could have ever imagined. And to think, in what seemed like the same instant, you turned, disappearing. As the door closed between us, I heard a muffled “good night”.
I remember the night. Happy Valentines Day JB You’re swell,
First thoughts on the second half of Writing Down the Bones, by Natalie Goldberg, starting with Sipping Wine. You can see my thoughts on the first half, which ended with Sipping Wine, in the post Goldberg, First Ideas.
In the class on Friday, 4/1/22, we did some journal writing. Most of the class read from their writing. I chose not to, my thoughts were still formulating. As I read this last half of Goldberg, I had 3 things from my Friday’s class notes on my mind:
Ekphrastic – the original meaning was “telling in full”. The more modern definition is “a self-contained description, often on 2 common place subjects, which can be inserted at a fitting place in discourse.”
Stone – the object I chose from Dr. Hudson’s office. A common place object, often overlooked, it is pulled from the earth. My stone is symbolically two common subjects linked metaphorically.
Window – A medium through which our mind transports us to another place.
I’m not explaining that well here, I had no chance of explaining it in class. I’ll occasionally make references to these.
Start of 2nd Half Review
I’m going to put page numbers where I found ideas that I feel are worthy of noting. I’m doing this for myself. I intend to return every so often and reread.
p. 72 Russell Edson emphasizes the importance of first sentences. Write these down, along with a short piece, return later. Maybe choose one to expand upon. p. 74 Take chances. You’ll succeed only if you take chances
p. 75 Don’t Tell, but Show
p. 77 Be Specific
p. 82 {Window} using details to step through to the other shore
p. 84 Talk is a window to great material
p. 85 {Window} Talk about the ordinary can be a conduit to writing that is extraordinary simply in the telling.
p. 88 My blog can be one of the most basic, and effective, ways to self publish.
p. 89 {Window} become what it is you are seeing, express it in your writing
p. 90 As with an animal, move slowly, stalk your prey. This is how I naturally approach most of what I do. Let the writing percolate.
p. 98-102 There’s an art to choosing the right restaurants in which to write…
p. 113 Write. When you’re done, write a little more.
p. 123 Hemingway. Not the why, but the what.
p. 133 I disagree with “write a lot of forms”. I say, write. Write without regard to what form it may be taking. When done, look to discover what form it has taken.
p. 139 I qualify what I just noted on p.133. I’m finding I’m grazing in different fields of writing. I don’t always like the taste, at least at first. I was further reminded of something Aunt Jean told me…
Aunt Jean – an excellent writer an avid reader – once told me that when she was first married she hated olives. Her mother-in-law told her, “if you eat 8 olives, you will love them for the rest of your life”. Aunt Jean choked down a couple, then a couple more, then… she loved them to her dying day.
p. 140-140 The chapter speaks to me. “Rules” are lost on me, I break them from the start. This song came to mind: I drink when I’m hungry, I eat when I’m dry I’m always hungry and I’m never dry. Hallelujah, I’m a bum Hallelujah, bum again Hallelujah, give a handout and Revive me again
p. 147 Food is a stone for me. Go to food when you cannot think of anything to write about. Food is filled with metaphor, as I look at my egg cooking, I see the morning sun breaking through fluffy white clouds. I have only to look at my Facebook posts, rarely a week goes by without posting about food.
p. 150 Loneliness is my window, transporting what’s inside my mind to the outside physical world around me.
p. 152-155 Going Home. In nearly all my writing, I find something from the time I can recall my very first memories thru the time I left home to go off to college.
Write sentences, or very short paragraphs, and stick those in notes. Better yet, in a private post. Review these from time to time, there’s a story there waiting to be told.
p. 159 Kathleen has us form a circle, every class becomes a “story circle”. Have a better awareness of this, record the stories that form from the images in my brain as I listen to my budding fellow student writers.
p. 164 Claim Your Writing
p. 167 Trust Yourself
p. 170 Alan Ginsberg was asked, “How come you don’t criticize work more?” His response was, “Why bother talking about something you don’t like?” I’ve received virtually no responses, not even very many simple “Likes” on my Facebook post to a link to my Short Story, A Woman Named Stephanie. I’m going to re-post that link and use Ginsberg’s quote as a possible reason I’ve had a paucity of responses.
p. 172-176 I made numerous revisions to my recent short story submission, after submission. A powerful tool, available to anyone posting online with WordPress, is the plugin Yoast SEO (I subscribe to Premium, but the basic is good and it’s free). Search Engine Optimization moves your post, and blog, up in Google rankings. Many, perhaps these days most or all, of what Google looks for is what publishers look for and what readers demand.
Goldberg says to look for what gives your work energy, makes it hot. These are the same things that ranks your work high among search engine rankings.
p. 177-178 I don’t want to die. I made a note, this last chapter is “worth re-reading”.
I’m going to do a very quick re-reading, then make this my submission. It will then be also available as a post on my blog. I intend to give this a day or two, then re-visit and pull perhaps the top5 things from my above list.
It was the summer of 1986, I didn’t know it then, but I would soon meet a woman named Stephanie, she touched my life in ways I’m only now beginning to fully understand, more than a quarter century later.
I’d been working at Morgan Stanley since late March. My new sublet was just off Broadway on 78th, about 4 stops on the #1 line. Mid August in Manhattan can be oppressive, hot and humid. As I stepped out of my apartment on a Saturday afternoon, all I wanted was a cold beer, a burger and to catch the last few innings of the Mets versus Philly’s. I might have headed for Dublin House on 79th, a dive bar I would only frequent in daylight hours. Not that day, not ever again. A few nights before two guys got into a fight outside the bar, one guy was a black belt in marshal arts. It was over quick, a kick split the other guy’s head open. Someone told me chalk marks were still on the sidewalk.
At the corner I headed down Broadway, past the pizza by the slice spot daughter Hilary and I discovered. You folded your slice, grease dripping from the fold. One of the best parts of my move to Manhattan was having Hilary visit during school vacation. Little by little she was becoming comfortable wandering around on her own when I was at work. A few years later she was accepted at NYU. Many years later I would learn, from those first visits to the City, she knew where she wanted to be. I wouldn’t make mention of Dublin House on her next visit.
A few blocks away I walked into a small restaurant, a single seat left at the bar, game tuned to the Mets. I’d been there maybe twice, Jake greeted me like I was a long time regular, “Shiner Bock”? “Sure, add a burger and fries.”
Hard for me not to make some assumptions about the gal seated to my left. She was glued to the game, Darryl Strawberry was coming to the plate, the crowd chanting “Daaaaarrrrryl, Daaaarrrryl”. I interjected, “sweetest swing in baseball”. A smile, but not even a slight glance in my direction. That perfect fluid swing, the crowd erupted, my neighbor took a deep breath, but eventually the ball was caught just shy of the right center field wall.
Over the next few innings I learned a first name, “Stephanie”, and many of my assumptions were correct. Stephanie was a local, obviously a Mets fan, college educated and attractive, but in an approachable way. I was, always will be, a Yankees fan, but those ’86 Mets were, without any doubt, taking over the city that season. Although they lost to the Philly’s that afternoon, they’d go on to defeat Boston in the World Series, in 7 games. That team had as many, probably more, off field stories as on, but they live forever in the hearts of a lot of die hard Mets fans.
Not much else happened that day, Stephanie did allow me to buy her a coffee. Jake delivered it with a whiskey glass full of ice, a few cubes immediately added to the coffee, black. Most of the talk was baseball, but it was obvious Stephanie was a fan of and very knowledgeable about celebrities in general, not just baseball stars. We had both seen Woody Allen’s Hannah & Her Sisters, she had spotted Woody and Mia Farrow earlier.
A few days later I was catching the #1 at 72nd. I noticed someone looking at me, we both stared for a few moments, then realized we had met watching the Mets game. Stehpanie asked where I grew up. I told her she would never have heard of the village, it was on Lake Champlain in the Adirondacks. She said, “yes I would, I grew up in Port Henry”. Holy crap, the same little village. “Who are you?”. Stephanie was a woman named Stephanie Easton? A few years behind me in school, she was one of my sister Susan’s besties. At one time, when she first moved to Port Henry, she lived on the next street. Her dad was a dentist, hard to imagine a small town like ours supporting 2 dentists, but they stayed until her dad’s eyesight caused him to abandon the practice.
Over the next 11 years, my entire time in NY City, Stephanie and I saw each other on again/off again. To say we each have idiosyncrasies that can drive someone else nuts is an understatement. Still, we shared time together at movies, baseball games, playing some tennis and otherwise loosely dating. I would buy an apartment several years later in the Ansonia, a historic building on Broadway, stretching from 73rd to 74th. Stephanie had, still has, an amazing rent controlled apartment on Broadway and 76th.
Stephanie & Wm Riverside Park, 2022
For may years, after I left NY City and sold my apartment in 1990, Stephanie and I were mostly out of touch. Over the past few years, both of us have had health issues, Stephanie’s cancer left her in the hospital a year or so ago for months. Those challenges, I feel, have somehow brought us back together. All those once irritating quirks? They no longer seem so annoying, in fact, I think most are what we love about each other.
We’ve remained uniquely ourselves. Not a care in the world about what we haven’t accumulated in material wealth. A woman named Stephanie became a friend in that special way that defies understanding.
