Blog # 8: Jess Yaun

I haven’t worked on my novel once this summer. I needed to take a break and let the story simmer; let lime trees, hot Carolina sun, a hedgehog and two tigers set up residence in my imagination. With every book we read I entered a different world, each of them complete and vivid. I found myself on a shrimper’s boat watching for a white dolphin, hiding in the concierge’s armchair sipping jasmine tea, and falling asleep on a plush, new mattress given to me by my lover. Whenever I thought about leaving one of those worlds to enter my protagonist’s world, I found my limbs unwilling. I realized there wasn’t a world to return to.

The first section of my novel suffers a loss of place. In the second section, when my character Rebecca lives among the Cherokees, the place is bright and vibrant. I can feel the breeze on my bare skin, walk beneath the red and orange leaves of the forest, and hear the river rushing on the edge of the village. But the first section of Rebecca’s life, in the present moment, there is no world. I gave the reader the vaguest sense of where she is. I wanted her to be lonely but I made her too alone; I wanted to show a disconnect present in modern times but didn’t give the story enough characters to depict that disconnect. And above all, she has no place. I wanted Rebecca to not have a place, but I failed to create a place around her in the process. Instead, I need to create the world around her and figure out how to show that she doesn’t feel a part of it. Just because she feels she doesn’t belong to her world doesn’t mean there isn’t a world!

The books also reminded me to let go. Since beginning the MAPW program I’ve been like Hemingway, painstakingly choosing each word. But this is not the kind of writer I’ve always been. While I’ve learned the value of revision and careful word choice, I’ve restricted myself to the point of strangling my creativity and forcing myself into rigid lines of what is acceptable. Strout prompted, there are different ways of constructing stories. Smyth whispered, find the heart of your character’s world and let it flow from you in beautiful words. Barbery advised, the big things you want to say are important, more important than technicalities or what others may think of how you express it.

Toni Says Thank You

My many thanks to all of you. You have made my summer brighter.

Blog # 8 by Brittany Leazer: Its in the Details

This course has challenged me in my own writing in so many ways. I have learned so much about my writing that I would have never learned without these books. First of all, I would have never even picked up most of these books without being told to. I would have looked at the back cover of most of them and then returned them to the shelf. For instance, Lime Tree Can't Bear Orange did not sound appealing to me, but I could not but it down. I was completely overwhelmed by the beauty of the writing and incredible descriptions. I learned that I need to be very aware of the details in my writing. All of the books we have read have been so precise in the details. In the Prince of Tides, the setting was so vivid, because of the details surrounding it. In Olive Kitteridge, the characters came alive because of the details. In A Movable Feast, Hemingway always pays careful attention to the details of language. He chooses each word so carefully.

In my own writing I have been careless with details. I have been hoping that the reader will just get it. I have learned in this course that to truly write something worth reading, I must take great care with the details.

Blog Post # 8: Ray Atkins Wishes You All Well

Beach Readings for Writers has been an enjoyable class for me, both because of the selection of books on the reading list and because of my interactions with all of you. During the course of the semester I learned (or re-learned) a bit more about the complex craft of writing from each of the authors we read.

In A Moveable Feast, Ernest Hemingway reminded me that being a writer is very cool. No, really. I became a writer in the first place because I always believed that it was the best of all possible occupations. Occasionally I have forgotten this and have allowed the realities of the writing life to spoil the experience, and I was going through such a period when I opened this book. Thanks, Papa, for adjusting my attitude.

In A Prince of Tides, Pat Conroy rekindled my lifelong love affair with beautiful language. As far back as I can remember, I have been drawn to books with lush, descriptive words and exotic turns of phrase. I have always believed that how a story is told is at least as important as the story itself, and every time I read Conroy, I am encouraged to write magnificent sentences.

In Olive Kitteridge, Elizabeth Strout taught me that a character doesn’t have to be likeable in order to be sympathetic. This was an epiphany for me. Olive was an unpleasant, selfish woman. I took an instant dislike to her. Yet by the middle of the book, I truly cared about her, and I wanted her life to turn out all right.

In The White Tiger, Aravind Adiga taught me that a book can be serious and whimsical at the same time. I think that this is an especially important skill for writers of serious fiction. Have you ever sat down with an “important” book only to have the author beat you over the head with the book’s message? I usually end up with a headache, and the book generally finds itself donated to the Salvation Army.

In Lime Tree Can’t Bear Orange, Amanda Smyth showed me that simple can sometimes be better. As I have said, I love rich language, but there is a fine line between a verdant sentence and an overwritten one. Smyth walks this line and makes it look easy for the rest of us to follow.

In The Elegance of the Hedgehog, Muriel Barbery reminded me of the importance of titles. This seems like such a simple lesson, but that is precisely why it is easy to forget. It doesn’t matter how great your book is if no one picks it up in the first place.

In A Pearl in the Storm, Tori Murden McClure taught me the importance of action. The action in her story was non-stop, and the book was hard to put down as a result.

And finally, in The Ghost of Milagro Creek, Melanie Sumner taught me that it’s okay for a writer to get outside of her comfort zone if the story she wishes to tell is out there beyond the boundaries, waiting.

Samara Blog 8: Where do I go from here?

I must say that almost all of the books we were asked to read for this class are most likely books I would have never picked up on my own. However, I am glad that I have had the opportunity to read all of them. It is important to read books out of your comfort zone and some of these were way out for me. I have learned a lot from all of the selections chosen, but four of the books had a significant inpact on me as a writer.

I not only enjoyed The White Tiger as a reader but also as a writer. I found that Adiga's style of writing suited the story he told exceptoionally well. I think that writing the truth can sometimes be a challenge and Adiga rose to that challenge. Even though his work is a piece of fiction it is clear that he has an agenda to tell about life in India from a persepective that is not often heard from.

The Prince of Tides will most likely be the biggest help to my writing. I struggle with setting in my works. I get so involved in the characters and the dialogue that I tend to forget about setting all together. Conroy's writing changed that for me. The minute I began to read this book my eyes grew wider and wider at all of his descriptions of setting and how he actually made the setting another character in the novel. I also feel this way about Lime Tree Can't Bear Orange. The descriptions of the people in this novel are wonderful. Each character is so clearly rendered that the reader would know this person if she met any of these characters in the street.

Olive Kitteridge is a novel that I will come back to often to look at usage of point of view. I am awed by Strout's use of point of view within her novel. Each chapter lends itself to a specific person's voice and Strout is able to execute this effectively. Point of view can make or break a piece of writing. Some stories are meant to be told from a distance and some are meant to be up close and personal.

Without a doubt I learned something from each and every book we read in this class. I also learned that it is okay to come out of your comfort zone as a reader because it just might make you a better writer.

Blog #8 Dina's Journey of Thought

Wow - what a semester! When I signed up for this class, I wasn't sure how an online format would work for a class about reading. With great relief, I quickly found out that with intelligent, dedicated classmates and a list of thought-provoking novels, it probably worked better than in a classroom. Since I was forced to write my responses after reading beautifully written prose and consider my classmates' points-of-view before responding to them, I began looking at reading and writing in a very different way. Here are just a few of the things I learned.

• With A Moveable Feast, I found out that the novels I feed on are more than likely not the result of a few months of easy, fluid writing. The best books I read were probably written in fits and starts, edited multiple times, hated at times by the writer, and took dedication and commitment to complete. Writing is not for the weak-hearted, and I have to be willing to work through my self-doubt and fear and "write the best story [I] can" (183).
• A Pearl in the Storm showed me how to weave the past and present together with beautiful descriptions thrown in to light the way. Her personal story also taught me that dreams can come true if you never give up.
• The Prince of Tides inspired me to do a better job of setting, characterization, and descriptive language. I mean, come on, "lost in the coilings and overlays of a memory tight-fisted with the limitlessly prodigal images of a Carolina sea island" (110). Can you get any more evocative than that? He just inspired me to be the best writer I can possibly be. He made me want to write a different book than the one I'd been working on because, after that, I wanted to tell a more intricate story.
• I continued to think I could do more, had to do more, when I read Olive Kitteridge. Her stories were simple but still showed the complexity of the human heart. But what I really loved was the unique format. It made me think about different ways to tell a story beyond the typical novel format. What could I do that was new and interesting?
• The White Tiger made me want to create a character with more dimensions. Although I can't say I liked Balram and would want to have tea with him, I was fascinated by him. He had highly moral ideas in some respects, yet he was willing to commit murder to be free. What situation or conflict would bring out a different side to a character - a side that even the character didn't know he/she had?
• Lime Tree Can't Bear Orange once again gave me picturesque language that painted a foreign land that didn't feel foreign because Smyth took me there with Celia.
• The Elegance of the Hedgehog showed me that beautiful writing isn't enough. Tell a story. Staying inside a character's head for several chapters and discussing one topic too long is death to the reader. No matter how good a writer you are, beautiful words are only words if they don't engage the reader and make the reader care.

I haven't done much personal writing this semester or applied these lessons to my current novel for several reasons: one reason was time, but I could've made the time if I'd really wanted to. The main reason was that these books, the writing, made me want to write a novel with more depth than the one I've been working on. I'm not sure exactly the story I want to tell, but I'm getting there. Then I just have to write it.

Blog #8 Toni Michael

Reading the selections that we have read and taking the time to reflect and write about those readings has shown me that I need to be more disciplined. I am a big picture kind of girl, so zeroing in on details is something that I have to work on and be attentive to. I need to focus on the details of setting, description, characterization, and purpose. In A Moveable Feast, Hemingway demonstrates time and time again that a writer must be disciplined and consistent to write daily.
Once upon a time, I was very good about journal keeping. But my entries were dry and not very descriptive. The reason for this is because I would hurry through my entries or write in such a way that was strictly to record information. This semester, I have realized my need to become a sagacious observer of people and places. If Renee and Paloma are riddled with insight, it is because Muriel Barbery is a keen individual who has worked on understanding the twists and turns of the motives behind people’s behavior. If Tom is a true Southerner, it is because Conroy has absorbed the sights, the scents, and the colors of the south. If Olive is both caustic and caring it is because Strout has shown her through the eyes of multiple perspectives.
So, what am I doing with what I learned? I am looking at everything with an eye for the details. I am purposing to write daily or as close to daily as I possibly can. I am also looking for books that have been as good as the ones I have read this summer—any suggestions?

Blog # 8 Lisa What I Did on My Summer "Vacation"

Summer is a great time to read. Two of my favorite places to read and to write are either on my front porch or next to Lake Blue Ridge. (Picture of Blue Ridge, GA while I reading for this class) I spent a lot of time on my front porch this summer reading and writing for this class.

We read books I would have never selected but I am so glad that I read them. As a writer, each selection taught me something about being a writer. Each of the books had a distinct voice. I think of what I learned at a “Discover your Voice” writing workshop, that we do not like some books because we just do not like the voice of the author. It’s okay if I did not like every book, we don’t have to like everyone. Even if I did not like every book, I learned something from each one.

From Ernest Hemingway in A Moveable Feast, I came to appreciate the writing friends I have in my life. Their contribution is a listening and critical ear that forces me to write the “one true” sentence.

Tori Muden McClure inspired me for her courage. Her courage went far beyond her rowing adventure; she had the courage of her convictions to write the spiritual side of her story. In A Pearl in the Storm, McClure shared a very personal transformation with complete transparency. I admire that more than her other great accomplishments.

Pat Conroy forced me to look up many words in The Prince of Tides. I am normally annoyed by writing that requires a dictionary, but Conroy wrote so beautifully it was an honor to learn new vocabulary from him. Story was complex model for fiction writers, I will remember this when I get overwhelmed plotting my simple stories.

Elizabeth Strout’s clever use of point of view in Olive Kitteridge taught me the reasons for using omniscient point of view. I will likely use this technique to give more latitude to my writing.

I know I am being very politically incorrect when I say this, but the last three books – I just did not like because of the foreign voice of the authors. I know this is not the “right” attitude to have; my friend Anne Richards calls me a “higher education nightmare.” I am just not a very "multi-cultural" person. I was born on the 5th of July and love everything American. I know that is not popular right now. But Aravind Adiga gave me permission to expose this dark side of my personality. I was going to be a foreign missionary until I realized I had to go to a foreign country – I went to Northern California instead for one summer. And when I call technical support and I hear, “Helloo LEEZA” in an Indian accent, I want to hang up and try again. That aside, I did learn from these foreign authors.

The White Tiger by Aravind Adiga gives me license to write what I just wrote – my real opinion. I would not call it an “agenda” but a preference.

Lime Tree Can’t Bear Orange was beautifully written by Amanda Smyth. My father went to Trinidad to work after he retired and lived there for many years. He loved it. I have no desire to travel there, however wonderful her descriptions of Trinidad and Tobago. I learned from our assignment how to write a scene with my senses – that was fun and I will try that again. I especially enjoyed feedback from class members.

Muriel Barberry is not an author I would care to meet at a book signing. Her comments about not thinking about the readers in her interview with were arrogant, like her characters in The Elegance of the Hedgehog. I do not want to write something so annoying to the reader that they are tempted to put it down and not finish.

Blog #8 Heather Cook

As I look back on this semester, I’ve had quite impressive mentors. I’ve been taught by Ernest Hemingway and Pat Conroy. I’ve been around the world to India to learn from Aravind Adiga , to France to listen to Muriel Barbery, and to Trinidad and Tobago to learn from Amanda Smyth. I’ve sat with Tori Murden McClure and listened to her beautiful prose as she rowed across the Atlantic, and I’ve sat around the fire and listened to Elizabeth Strout tell her stories about Olive Kitteridge. From these authors I’ve learned quite a lot, but the biggest aspect of their writing that I have taken with me is the ability to slow down and to build the characters with grace and depth.

Out of all the authors we’ve read, Pat Conroy spoke to me the loudest. With his book that contained such memorable characters, I learned the merits of a slower pace. I was astounded at some of the details he included about the characters, things that I wouldn’t have even thought to include, yet these little details help shape the characters into the rounded people that they are in the novel. In the detective fiction piece I have begun to write during this class (which I have begun to put more focus on rather than the fantasy piece), I slowed the pace down in order for the detective to think about all the occupants within a movie theater.

Immediately bored of the previews, Spade began to profile everyone around. A man with what appeared to be black hair sat a couple rows from the front by himself. Every now and then, he would scratch the back of his head almost habitually. Sitting diagonally to the left about five rows in front of Spade was the easily aggravated young couple who were necking as if they had forgotten that they were in a public space rather than in the confines of a bedroom.

From Amanda Smyth, I learned that setting is more important than I thought. The reader needs to visualize the scenery or the world that I have created will not become real to them. Often times in my writing, I pay more attention to the temporary settings, like a certain room or a certain day’s weather, but I wouldn’t paint the larger picture of where the characters are to begin with. In the detective fiction piece I’m writing, I tried to change this by describing the physical appearance of the theater.

Although he frequented this theater, the appearance of the theater always managed to startle him. Despite the bright lights and the new paint on the outside, the insides truly showed the theater’s age. The beige walls were darkened with dust, and the burgundy carpet was worn and tattered.

Though these are only a few examples of what I’ve learned from these wonderful writers, they have had a profound effect on me, and their lessons echo through my mind as my fingers brush the keys.

Parisian Twilight Zone

You know the theme song from "The Twilight Zone?" That Do do do do, do do do do? Well, I had the good fortune to go to France last week, and my first stop was Paris. After a day of sightseeing, I settled into the hotel room to start on The Elegance of the Hedgehog. On page 19, Renee informs the reader that she is the concierge at number 7, rue de Grenelle, and I thought to myself, "What's the address of this hotel? 150 . . . rue de Grenelle." Do do do do, do do do do.

The next day, I took my husband on what he described as a death march, to see the Luxembourg Gardens. We cut down a side street to get there and I looked up at a plaque on a nearby building identifying #27 as the home of Gertrude Stein, "where she received numerous writers and artists from 1903-1938 (in French)." Do do do do, do do do do.

We left Paris to spend a week in the foothills of the French Alps, then returned to Paris. I dashed through the shops in the airport, trying to buy a few gifts to take home to my kids. I stopped at an elegant little cart and bought these gorgeous multi-colored macaroons and popped them into my carry-on. When I settled into my seat on the plane, I opened Hedgehog to finish it and read, on page 139, this haiku: If you offer a lady enemy/Macaroons from Chez Laduree/Don't go thinking/You'll be able/To see beyond. I opened my carry-on and pulled out the box of macaroons and read the label: Laduree. Do do do do, do do do do.

So you see, the things you read follow you wherever you go.

Blog #8- Kristi DeMeester

When I began my reflection, I thought back to a piece of advice an old teacher once gave me. I had asked her how I could improve my writing. She smiled before swiveling her chair to the large cherry bookcase behind her. She trailed her fingers over the middle row before pulling out a rather hefty volume and passing it to my waiting hands. “Read all you can get your hands on. Good or bad and then learn the difference between the two.”

The book she gave me was Orwell’s 1984, and instead of just reading it, I read it like a writer. Weighing what worked, what didn’t, and wondering how I could use it.

As I’ve progressed in the MAPW program, I’ve noticed that my writer brain is growing more keen, and I can largely attribute this development to the readings for this class. With every book, I found enviable elements and tucked them away for future use.

From Hemingway I take away, “Write the truest sentence you know.” Forcing myself to start somewhere and to let it be true is something with which I struggle. Hemingway taught me that it’s okay to hear the voice of the internal critic, but that it isn’t okay to let her run my writing and to keep me from writing those truths.

From Murden McClure I learned that if I announce I’m going to write in a particular genre, I should most certainly spend most of my time in that genre. Either that or detail why I’ve put a new, refreshing spin on the genre so that my reader doesn’t feel betrayed. Romance, my foot!

Oh, Olive Kitteridge. You taught me so many things. The art of layering multiple perspective around an epicenter so strong yet so fragile became a thing of magic and something I hope to gather the courage to try one day.

What I appreciated about Adiga was his ability to be honest about the reality of a world that many people consider unfathomable. To have the courage to present the reader with a protagonist that he or she will more than likely consider unlikeable demonstrates a bravery and confidence I’d love to have.

Smyth taught me about description. She taught me that flowery language full of verbosity isn’t necessary to create an image that lingers long after the final page is turned. Celia’s world is colored in so expertly, so brilliantly that at several points, Smyth literally took my breath away.

Burberry taught me of the balance between philosophic prose and plot, or at least, she taught me when to err on the side of plot to avoid losing readers within the first 100 pages.

And I come to Conroy at the end. I’m beginning to regret my initial ranking system. I think I was too fresh from reading Hedgehog to fully appreciate the entire scope of readings from the semester. I would put him first. From him I re-claim a fascination with the beauty of language and using it to craft setting and not shirking from violence because even violence has its purpose.

I thank all of you for your discussions, encouragements, and alternate viewpoints. I think I’ll spend the last three weeks of my summer being an absolute bump on a log and well…reading some more.

Blog #8 - Kathleen - Book Learnin'

I learned a lot in this class. I learned that an on-line course can be even more engaging than a classroom course. I already knew that to be a good writer, you had to read good books. Here’s what I learned, about life and about writing, from the books we read for this course (in reading order):

1. A Moveable Feast. If you want to be a writer, you have to act like a writer. Be more selfish. Make time to write every day and get out of the house. Seek out companions who want to talk about writing, literature, and ideas. Don’t overwrite; think about paring down your sentences. Write one true sentence. Write another one. Heck, write a true paragraph. Don’t marry a man who’s going to go out drinking night after night and leave you at home with the kids.

2. A Pearl in the Storm. As a nonfiction, mixed genre, book, Pearl was the most like the type of book I am working on for my capstone, my family trip-through-Ireland book, Sweater Weather. McClure, like Bill Bryson, inspires me to stuff my memoir with variety. Give your story a vehicle, such as a journey or quest, but weave in elements of your past, as well as interesting facts about the places or activities you are writing about. Incorporate meaningful quotations from other writers or historians or philosophers. Push yourself, as a writer and as a person, but know when to give yourself a break. Lighten up, Tori baby!

3. The Prince of Tides. Let yourself be haunted by your personal geography. Write about your heart’s own land, your terra, as Robert Penn Warren calls it in A Place to Come to. Conroy has reminded me that I want and need to write about my low country homeland, too. Write big, he taught me in Prince. Describe what you see and how you feel about it in lofty terms. (But get an editor who won’t let your story sprawl!)

4. Olive Kitteridge. Brilliant book, a multi-faceted diamond. The next great American classic. Lessons learned from it: Consider the parts of the whole. Use multiple perspectives. Don’t be afraid to tell it like it is. Write about imperfect people. Advance your story with memorable dialogue. Consider hormone replacement therapy.

5. White Tiger. Can you change the world with your book? Is there an issue, an agenda you’d like to present so that your readers can see how someone else lives-- and suffers? Adiga makes me consider going for the jugular.

6. Lime Tree Can’t Bear Orange. Don’t be reluctant to describe the small details; use all your senses. String your descriptions like jewels throughout your narrative.

7. The Elegance of the Hedgehog. What’s the big idea? Put that in your book—but don’t overdo it. Don’t isolate yourself personally or as a writer. Keep searching for those moments of beauty and movement, the camellia on the moss, the rosebud that falls softly from the stem to the table. Put those moments into your work.

Where do I go from here? When the semester ends, I’m going to pick up and read Melanie’s book, The Ghost of Milagro Creek, and Ray’s book, Sorrow Wood. I’m going to email Elledge and tell him what a perfect format this course has been for the summer, how it fomented an incredible sense of writing community that I wish we could keep going. And I’m going to return to my writing with renewed enthusiasm, inspiration, and ambition. Thanks, Melanie--and thanks to each one of you.

Blog #8 Melissa Davis - Learning and Using from Everyone

There's been so much I have learned from these amazing authors. Most of these books I would never have picked up and read, and I would have missed out. Even those that I didn’t particularly like, I learned from.

The vast and equally important discussions from my fellow classmates have also provided a wealth of knowledge and insight. I have enjoyed reading other’s interpretations of these works and finding out whether they saw / felt the same as I did, or if they saw / felt something completely different.


These are the some of the things I will take and use:


Hemmingway – “Write the best story you can and write it as straight as you can” (138). Hemmingway taught me to finish what I started, but only when the story is ready. All those folders and story beginnings are such wonderful potential for me and are as equally important as the finished stories. Someday I might have an epiphany and finish them all!


McClure – “Mixing genres is something I have yet to tackle unless you count the fantasy romance.” McClure’s ability to combine so many genres into one memoir made me realize that most stories, including mine, combine parts of many types of genres. My series, The Ghost Hunters, combines action, adventure, horror, science fiction, and romance (what good YA book doesn’t have a little romance in it?).


Strout – “The careful separation of the personalities within the narrations shows the individuals, as well as, their influence on each other.” Strout allows the reader to experience many characters and their effect on each other. In my story The Ghost Hunters, I have seven characters and experiencing the interaction played out in Olive Kitteridge has given me great ideas!


Adiga – “I found his frankness and fortitude very appealing and refreshing.” Balram taught me that characters need to be truthful with the reader, whatever the consequence. If told the truth and with openness and grit, characters can be respected, if not liked. In my Cupid and Psyche retelling, readers are not supposed to like one of the main characters, but I want them to respect him and understand him.


Smyth – “Smyth’s descriptions are crisp and clear and provide a visual and emotion response from the reader.” Smyth’s settings influenced my writing greatly. I hope to make my settings as lush and beautiful, as hers, as well as, use precise words to create the complete picture in the reader’s head.

Blog 8 - Jessica Quinn - "What I Learned and What I Intend To Do With It"

The topic of “What I Learned and What I’m Doing With It,” was almost as foreboding as “My Name is ______, and I’m a Writer.” I have learned a great deal about writing this summer, tips on how to write, coupled with a new strength of opinion of what I like and what I don’t and why. However, with the intense summer that I’ve had, I have yet to find the time to apply all of these lessons, thus making this blog post feel a bit intimidating. I know how I want to apply them, I just haven’t done it yet so I feel disingenuous.

When I do have the time to write again, which will be in a few short weeks once I complete an author book tour for a P.R. client, the most important rule I hope to engage in my writing habits came from Ernest Hemingway in A Moveable Feast:

It was in that room too that I learned not to think about anything that I was writing from the time I stopped writing until I started again the next day. That way my subconscious would be working on it and at the same time I would be listening to other people and noticing everything, I hoped; learning, I hoped; and I would read so that I would not think about my work and make myself impotent to it.(Location 184-199 on the Kindle Edition, approximately p.11)

Of course I’ll also seek to write true sentences.

When reading A Pearl In The Storm, I was riveted, but it wasn’t just the writing style, but all of the many genres of writing that are encompassed in a memoir—or can be I should say. The biggest challenge for me will be fitting romance into a book about Faith-Based Public Relations, but in Pearl, Murden lays down the gauntlet as she quotes her uncle:

With a twinkle in his eye, he said, “A romance—it must be a romance.” He explained that I was too young to write my life as a history: “Who wants to read the history of half a life?” Tragedy, he explained was “boring.” Anyone over the age of thirty can write his or her life as a tear-soaked muddle. “There is no challenge in that,” my uncle counseled. “Comedies are fine, but the greatest stories in life are about romance.” (p. 8)

Maybe romance can find a way into my non-fiction book on public relations. It sure did find its way into my life. Stay tuned for more.

Blog 8 - Danielle Swanson - Relationships, relationships, relationships

At the beginning of the semester, I wrote, "As a writer, I think my most important habit is to read, and it's one I stick to daily." I still think this and have continued to read all summer. From reading, I learn so much and Beach Reading has expanded my knowledge simply by allowing me to enter the worlds of these works.

This class has forced me to read books that are outside of my norm; a majority of these books, I never would have picked up if they weren't required reading. Still, each of these books have taught me something. I have learned about writing interior thoughts, about sharing secrets, about creating unique settings from several of the works we read. I will never forget Olive Kitteredge and the way the short stories come together to paint a portrait of a character or Balram's tale and how a protagonist can change across the pages of a novel.

While each book has offered me something different to put in my writer's toolbox, consistently the books we have read have allowed a view into the interworkings of relationships in creative writing. We began the semester with the simple relationships of Hemingway and his fellow writers, each developed almost as an individual scene, worked our way through the lonliness of the sea, saw several disfunctional relationships, and finally landed on perhaps the greatest relationship book we have read this semester: the magical tale of a poor conceirge and a 12-year-old girl.

I was once told that some books are driven by plot and some are driven by characters. One of those two things has to be great in a book to keep readers turning the pages. Maybe this is true; however, I would argue that all books have to be driven by relationships. If a book does not have sturdy, true connections between its characters (or even between a character and him/herself) than the reader will not want to continue. Early on they will leave the book and will, perhaps, lose out on those great characters or that great plot.

While I may not have enjoyed every moment of reading these works, there is not one I can say I regret reading. I am appreciate what I have learned from them and hope that I can incorporate what I have learned about relationships into my own work, which already has several connections. I'm going to look back and make sure those relationships are developed the way they should be, the way the relationships were in the books we read this semester.

Blog 8 - Barbara - Practicing what Others Preach

Blog 8 – Barbara
Practicing what Others Preach

I’ve learned so much from the course’s readings! From my three top favorite books, Hedgehog, Prince, and Olive, I now want to experiment with different points of view, to present thought-provoking material, to use richer language, to use stronger poetic prose, and to mix more genres in one narration. Furthermore, all three of my top-rankers delve heavily into psychology, each in a different way. I want to incorporate that into my novel as well as into my creative nonfiction. Finally, I see that attracting the interest with a curious title like Hedgehog must bring in more readers, especially when accompanied by good book cover graphics. I’ll use more imagination with my titles.

In connection with my book, Artists Connect, I’ve read several brilliant prologues by Miguel de Cervantes, which not only set the tone of his work but also portray him as a person and establish a rapport between him and his reader. Although I have been using epigraphs—sometimes original and sometimes quoted—I have not been taking advantage of effective prologues.

In my fiction I plan to incorporate more observation of human behavior, as in Hedgehog, more witty dialogue, as in Olive, more drama with archetypes, as in Prince, more ambience, as in Feast, and use mixed genres more freely, as in Storm. In addition, I want to use more effective descriptions with sketching words, just enough to help move the story along, as in Lime. And, finally, sooner or later I’ll need to give an accurate account of ugly truths, as in Tiger

Today I re-read one of my favorite pieces of poetic prose, by Pablo Neruda, from his autobiography, I Confess that I have Lived. He titled it “The Word.” I own the original Spanish version, and I admire Neruda’s superb wording and rhythm. The lyrical writing in Prince impressed me deeply as well. Like Conroy, I want to paint images of nature, and I also want to paint images of interior worlds, like states of mind. The persistent and consistent setting in Feast impressed me. Hemingway manages to present the city of Paris as a character in his memoir, sometimes in a stark way, and sometimes in a subtle way. When he relates the period of time where he postponed the pleasure of going to the horse track in order to get more writing done, he becomes a universal actor with universal needs and tendencies.

When I do incorporate even one of the many features I’ve admired this summer, I’ll write more powerful material.

Blog # 7: Jess Yaun

This is an excerpt from my novel, still untitled.



When she woke again she was in a hospital room, drugged, the pain barely there. Her dazed eyes wandered and then landed on the chair in the corner. I sat in that chair not too long ago. But the room was not the same and there were no flowers on the table beside the chair. When she had sat in a chair just like that one, she had it pulled to the side of her father’s bed. She had held his hand and spoke to him in hushed, lullaby tones that he had once used to soothe his only baby girl. She remembered how she watched her tears land on his hand, willing each tear to be the drop that woke him. When he did finally wake from his coma he only lived one day. They didn’t have to tell him his wife had died in the accident; he said he could see her in the corner, beckoning.

That was three months ago. Three months and Rebecca could not recall what she had done during those long days. The funeral was a blur. When she thought of it she saw still images: the caskets, side by side, being lowered into the ground, the blown-up picture of her parents, smiling and holding each other, set up in the church. Her parent’s friends and colleagues had milled about the house for a few hours after the service, and one by one they departed, leaving her in the empty house.

“She’s awake.” Rebecca’s eyes drifted toward the door. A doctor came following after the nurse and came to the bed, chart in hand. His eyes were dark and kind. He flipped open the chart, then looked back at Rebecca. He began to speak and Rebecca tried to follow what he was saying but the words seemed to float away from each other, one word dropping on the bed, another floating up to rest on the black TV screen.

The nurse checked the IV in her arm, and adjusted something on the monitor. Rebecca closed her eyes and fell back to sleep, only to find herself back in her dream. She was lying on a low cot against a mud wall. The air was filled with smoke so thick she could barely make out the figures standing around her, but she could see the bright painting on their faces, red and black designs along their cheeks and foreheads. A man started chanting and placed an assortment of pebbles, pouches, and crystals along her body. A woman put something on the hole in her side, an ointment that was both cool and warm at the same time. She felt no pain.

The man with the crystals whispered in her ear, “Chant with me child, if you can.”

She heard herself make strange sounds, felt her voice rising and falling in unfamiliar rhythms that dipped and swelled in her throat. She closed her eyes and let the chant run over her body, imagining it as a cool liquid slipping through her veins. The figures in the hut began chanting and swaying and stomping their feet until the very air seemed to reverberate with their rhythm.

She opened her eyes to find the hole in her side had begun to spark, little red and orange lights darting right out of her body and into the air - swirling once, twice, before fading into the smoke. The skin on her side felt like it was being gently pulled though no one was touching her. She was amazed to find that she was not afraid. She closed her eyes again and surrendered to the movement, and breathed deeply, the smoke filling her lungs but not making her cough. When she opened her eyes again she was back in the hospital room. She tugged the hospital gown up and looked at her side. The wound was gone. All that remained was a small brown circle, like a spot of paint.

Blog 7 - Danielle Swanson - Chp. 3

Here's the beginning of chapter three of my current work. I think I got all of the senses but taste. Any tips on getting that in?
Thanks!

I flipped to page seven of the twenty-page questionnaire I was filling out. Each page had the words Love Connection written in calligraphy across the top and the numbers at the bottom were in tiny hearts. It reminded me of a high school algebra exam, only the subject was my love life.

“Finding love should not be this hard,” I said.

"Finding love should not require a place this badly decorated,” was Mia’s response. “Think they could have found a shade closer to Pepto to paint the walls?”

The walls were a bright pink that did kind of remind me of the liquid medicine. We sat in white leather chairs, the plush kind with no arms, about twenty feet away from the receptionist’s desk, which was a semi-circle pushed against a wall. A white door flanked either side of the desk, making a swishing noise every time it swung back and forth, and a silver Love Connection sign, written in the same script as on the questionnaire, hung on the wall between the doors.

Mia elbowed me and pointed to the wall where a spray machine – the same kind they have in funeral homes and bathrooms – emitted sent every few minutes. The spray made the whole place smell like the inside of a carnation.
“I thought it was these things,” she said, grabbing the petal on one of the bouquets on a table next to us. “Turns out they’re frauds. Probably not the only ones in here."

Blog 7 - Barbara - Placing the Reader

From one of my chapters, on Miguel Cervantes and William Shakespeare:

I rubbed by eyes and ran my hand over my doublet and over my heart. Still there, both of them. Same bouffant pants—my favorite—of the best Spanish suede. I looked at my feet. Yes. My favorite soft-leather boots, a la Madrilena. But my feet were cold. Wonder why I hadn’t made it under this soft coverlet—what? The wrong color! And my panoply, where—Oh, no! A different bed. My stomach gurgled—always did with a hangover. But what better way to celebrate my completed eight comedias than to lift a few cups with some friends? I remembered straggling home with Alfonso, and tripping over a cobblestone or two, a block away from home, in Valladolid, the court’s new home (for now, and don’t hold your breath, it’ll move again soon enough). But anyway, I had just stepped over the heavy wood-and-metal door to our building when something hit my head, or my head hit something. Those blasted flower pots were on the ground again. If I’d told Philomena once I’d told her—anyway she forgot to hang it back up with the others and I tripped against the door and hit my head on the knocker, a very interesting brass lion’s head holding a ring—I’d been wanting to write a poem about that knocker. If I don’t I just know someone else will, and become famous. Anyway, the last thing I remembered was the blackout after that impact, and the stars! Oh, my stars. I can still feel that bump over my right eye. How had I made it in here? I didn’t know this room. It must have been above our floor in the apartment building in Valladolid. I got up and staggered to the window. Where had my courtyard gone, with all the begonias and carnations in pots hung on the walls? And the ceramic-tiled fountain in the middle? And the slated roof and the little gargoyles? I could have been hallucinating from a—what does Antonio call them?—concussion, yes, one of those blows to the noggin that make you sick and you see things that aren’t there, like Don Quijote. And, speaking of Antonio, where had he gone? He always spent the night with me after a binge, a designated guide, you might call him. Well, I certainly had what Mother called an ostrich egg over my eye, but it only hut if I poked it. I was ready for breakfast. But neither my housekeeper Philomena, nor my wife, nor my daughter, nor my house was around. Why was I seeing thatched roofs? And those strange crossed timbers on the wall, black on tan. I’d never seen that anywhere in Spain—neither in Cordoba, Granada, Madrid, Alcazar de Henares, Valladolid—nor in Italy when I was young—Florence, Milan, Rome… Someone knocked. A young girl with two long blond tresses and a light-blue apron held a tray of steaming hot food I'd never seen before.

Blog # 7- Kristi DeMeester

This is an excerpt from a short story I'm working on called "Walker."

Lakeshore Drive is quietly coming awake as I lace my old sneakers, the laces browned and crumbling at the ends, and clip Clara’s green leash to her collar. She waits patiently beside me, her blonde head dipping towards the ground as she sniffs before looking up at me with knowing brown eyes. I tousle her ears before asking, "So what do you think about today, old girl? You think we can do it today?" But Clara just blinks at me before turning back to the smells coming from under her paws.

It is still cool on this early Tuesday morning, and a hint of winter lingers in the air despite the yellow of the daffodils obscenely pushing their way through the brown earth. Cherry trees line the street and have exploded into a fairy land of cotton candy pink blossoms. Greenery buzzes beneath the dirt. Birds fresh from their tropical vacations call to one another with swooping voices, then fall momentarily silent before calling out again. There is a distinct blending of the scents of coffee and laundry detergent coming from the first house on my right, and I envision that the owner has opened the back door and welcomed the spring morning inside as the coffee brews in the kitchen. For a moment, I want to turn my brain off and just enjoy the quiet beauty of the morning; I want to just be a man out walking his dog, but the old itch burns underneath my skin, and I know that I must scratch it.

It is best to hit the streets early in the morning and during the week because then you will know who walks their dogs every day, who leaves their doors unlocked as they walk Rover or Spiff or Bella around the neighborhood, stopping to pick up the dog’s waste in a special pink, powder-scented bag so as to not offend the nose. The owners I meet on the street nod at me as I pass with Clara, some even stopping to pat her and exchanging a few words with me about the weather. I am unassuming in my community college t-shirt, my gray gym shorts, my ball cap pulled low to hide the hollow darkness of my eyes, my non-descript brown hair clipped short to make me more difficult to identify, my face clean shaven. I become any other guy walking his dog. Shit, I even toy with the other walkers a bit, telling them my name is Walker. Just good old Walker out walking his dog.

I never spend too much time on one street. Just enough to make me a safe part of the neighborhood, just enough to make me innocent and far from their thoughts when they wonder who could possibly break into their homes, rob them blind, think about raping their wives and daughters. But I never do that last thing. I’m not that far gone yet.

And they never see me when I take Clara back to my old Toyota pickup, the red faded to the rusty color of blood, which I parked down the street and out of sight. And they never see me when I return the next morning to park the truck and unload Clara for our daily walk. I slip into the fabric of their lives as easily as water moves through a stream, and I learn their habits before making my move.

Clara doesn’t mind. She walks beside me as I watch the neighborhood, learning the ways of the dog walkers, whom I learned long ago are the easiest targets. The dog walkers, always leaving their doors unlocked, always leaving their homes anywhere from thirty minutes to an hour after they walk the dog as I watch them come and go, come and go. They really are stupid if you think about it. They give me all of the information I need, and all I have to do is watch. Of course, Clara is the necessary ingredient in all of this. Without her, mother’s eyes would peer at me from behind lacy curtains, and lipsticked mouths would work furiously at the receiver of a telephone as word passes from house to house about a strange man out walking alone. But Clara is my godsend.

Blog 7 - Jessica Quinn - Good-bye sweet friend

Finally, things were settling down. I sat at my desk in my home office with a fresh glass of wine, ready to write…and then the phone rang. Normally, I would dread a call like this, but after the week we’d all had caring for our sweet friend, she was finally at peace and there was no more pain or fear. She was gone. However, I could tell by the tone of my sister’s voice that she needed us there as soon as possible.

My husband, Dan, and I walked into the Hospice twenty minutes later and already we could feel the peace of this place, as opposed to what we’d been experiencing all week in the frantic hospital corridors. Getting off of the elevator on the 6th floor, we were immediately hit with the smell of homemade chocolate chip cookies. It felt as if we’d entered an odd, peace-filled dimension we weren’t quite ready to experience. It was instantly comforting, but we weren’t ready to embrace it just yet. She’d only arrived here less than an hour before. It wasn’t supposed to be this fast.

Entering the room, again, the difference between this hallowed place and the hospital was shocking to the senses. The far wall of the room was almost all windows showcasing green trees in multiple shades all swaying together in the breeze. Again, the comfort came. Most shocking, though, was the absence of things. No loud machines assuring breath, no monitors occasionally beeping, no tubes, no…anything. She just lay there in the bed perfectly still. And I mean perfectly. She was so at peace that I kept waiting to see her chest rise and fall, or hear her labored breathing we’d come to pity over the past week, or even see her foot twitch. Nothing. Only the overwhelming smell now of Chick-fil-A, causing a disturbing sense of nausea to rise in my throat. It didn’t belong. Food belonged to life. This was death.

Her mother sat motionless at her bedside holding her hand. My sister quietly welcomed us in and we all marveled at how fast it had come. Was it only a week ago we all raced to manage her care and set up the 24/7 bedside vigil? No one wants to die alone.

I walked to her mom and hugged her gently. Her father was on his way back, he’d just left to run errands. We just didn’t expect it this fast and we all felt so bad for him. Her mother looked up with tears in her eyes, but there was a peace there as well. It was better like this, and in this place—much better than the hospital. We all agreed on that miracle. The hospice nurses checked in on us. They even seemed surprised at how fast this occurred.

Before her dad arrived, I knew it was time to say my good-bye. I’d never been in the room with a loved one who wasn’t alive—without them being in a casket. This was unchartered territory. I asked her mother if I could touch her and she said of course. I cupped her sweet face and brushed her hair back from her forehead as I’d done on several occasions as she was in the hospital and feverish and begging for cold clothes to be rubbed on her face and forehead—anything to ward off the pain of the fever. It was so bittersweet. I was so glad her suffering was over, but so sad she was gone now. I have a comfort that I’ll see her again someday, but an overwhelming sadness of missing her on this earth.

Her fever was gone and even in the short time since she’d passed, her skin had already started to cool. It was all happening so fast. I kept wanting to put balm on her chapped lips, again, as I had done all week, but that didn’t matter anymore. They had gone from a natural, envied deep burgundy to a stale, crusty purple. We all remarked about the semi-smile on her lips. It was sweet to see. We knew she was seeing people dressed in white and blue standing at the foot of her bed as she’d worsened. We all decided she must have been smiling at the angels who came to meet her. My sister said the night before she’d begged them to go ahead and take her with them. There is an unspeakable comfort in that. Thankfully, for her sake, they came back the next day. Good-bye sweet, Tricia. We’ll see you on the other side.

Blog #7 Dina's Description

For me, the hardest part about description is knowing what to put in and what to leave out. I've learned that usually when I think I've put in too much, it's actually just right. Below is something I recently wrote that may turn into a novel or may just be something I wrote to entertain myself.

The brick house with black shutters that sat at the end of Franklin Drive was unusually full this evening, cars parked in the driveway and around the cul-de-sac. The neighbors didn't mind because many of them were in the house as well, showing their respect for the death of the woman who had lived there with her husband and teenage daughter. The teenager sat ignored but not forgotten in a large, overstuffed chair that dwarfed her slender frame and seemed to emphasize the vulnerability and grief in large, green eyes that made her look like a small child.

Had the teenager realized the image she projected, she would have been mortified, but the chair's pillowy cushions whose fabric retained the scent of her mother's perfume comforted her. She wore a long, black dress and had a black headband holding her straight, black hair out of her face. Katie Morgan had attended her mother's funeral earlier that day and all the people invading the living room, dining room, and kitchen had covertly watched her silently scream at the graveside when they'd lowered the lid on her mother's coffin, sealing her forever from Katie and the world Katie now had to navigate alone.

Katie had no one left - her father was in prison and, as far as she knew, there were no grandparents, uncles, aunts, or cousins. There had only been her mother, then Bruce. But Bruce didn't want her. He'd come into her bedroom that very morning as she was putting on her black boots. He'd told her she needed to pack because she would be leaving with a social worker after the funeral ceremony. He'd told her what she already knew but what had never been put into words for her, "Katie, if I hadn't loved your mother so much and if you hadn't been a condition of her marrying me, you wouldn't be here now. With her gone, I don't want you here. God knows, your mother loved you and, for some reason, she always excused your strange ways, but I don't like you. And you can't stay."

Katie hadn't cried. She hadn't moved or said a word. She'd simply nodded. With her mother gone, she didn't care where she went. She felt like she'd been knocked down by a strong wave in the ocean and was spinning around and around, the pain slicing her skin like the shells and the sand, the sadness drowning her lungs with salty tears. She was disoriented and didn't know if she'd ever surface again.

Blog 7 By Brittany Leazer: Description with the Five Senses!

Here is a selection from my short story, PANES.

Chapter 2

Home Sweet Home

July 1963

Kate stepped off of the pale green and mustard yellow bus that stopped at the top of the driveway. She paused for a moment and started toward the bottom of the hill, studying the massive, white, plantation-style house that belonged to her grandmother. As she started to make her way down the driveway to the front door, gravel crunching under her feet, she felt a rush of emotions and memories flood through her body, emotions that she had neglected for a few years now. For a brief moment, she thought about making an escape, but then quickly replaced the thought with images of her beloved grandmother lying in bed, waiting on her arrival. Familiar scents filtered through the air and assaulted her nose. She has always been allergic to fresh cut grass. The magnolias filled the air with a sweet molasses smell. She reached down to the bushes that lined the driveway and picked a honey- suckle flower, pulled out the stem and touched it to her tongue, the sweet nectar refreshed her. The train whistle blew a soft melody through the air.

“Ten o’clock. Right on time.”

Blog # 6: Jess Yaun

I have a social agenda for my novel that I planned to hide within the layers of the plot. In fact, the idea for my story came from a desire to comment on modern western society. The idea emerged over several years of contemplation; my anthropology professor planted the seed. He told our class that the industrial revolution changed the way families lived and operated and that humans were still adapting to these changes. The most obvious change is going from extended families to nuclear families. But as I learned more about different tribes, from African tribes to Native American tribes, I was struck by how many of them shared cultural tendencies for unity and cooperation. As societies progress hierarchy develops and as it does, the emphasis on harmony and teamwork diminishes. This intrigued me.

Looking around at my own society, I see so many people that seem alienated and disconnected. Competition and independence are valued over cooperation and unity. Roles and identity are no longer determined for us by the family we live in and we have unlimited choice in who we become. I wanted to figure out a way to contrast how humans live today with how we once lived – for thousands of years. I decided on time travel.

As I began brainstorming and writing I chose to paint the present and the past worlds in stark, exaggerated portraits to highlight the differences between the societies. My protagonist, Rebecca, is deeply lonely and overwhelmed in the present, but finds comfort and peace in the past where family is central to day-to-day life and her role in society is defined for her. In her present world, she suffers the loss of her parents and struggles through it alone because she’s never met another member of her extended family. She doesn’t know who or where they are. Yet when she travels through time to the past and lives among Cherokee Native Americans, she learns about family and clans. She learns cooperation and harmony. She realizes the importance of a support system, and flourishes in her predetermined role within the society. When she finally returns to the present, she again feels overwhelmed by the differences – the abundance of choices to make and roles to assume. Instead of her identity being defined by her family, her clan, and her role among them, she must make one for herself. And she decides to create her own clan, since her society does not automatically offer her one.

This is the first story where I’ve consciously chosen an agenda. I’m sure in other writing my worldview and all that influences it has also influenced my words. It has been challenging to keep my agenda in mind as I write, and I worry that I’ll either make it too loud or too soft for the reader. But I keep trudging on. I’ve wanted to understand and explore the differences in how humans live my entire life, and I’ve been enjoying the exploration of those ideas through this story.

Blog #7 Lisa "Esther's Song"

This is from a story I started 10 years ago:

Esther walked the practice room halls in deep thought. The building had a new-building smell of carpet and paint; yawning hallways lined with sound-proof rooms all closed but one. The cracked door allowed the melody to escape and she experienced the music being played with pent-up fervor. Esther was drawn to the room but stood outside – back pressed against the cool wall frozen and compelled to listen to the beautiful song.

The musician was playing from a passionate place. It was a melody Esther had never heard, but her heart knew it well. Though the song was unfamiliar and unwritten, it resonated with her. She was seduced to stay as her heart sang the wordless lyrics. Esther closed her eyes as a salty tear slipped to her lips; her heart exposed and melting as the song played on swelling with every note.

Blog #7 Samara: Using my senses

When we were asked to write using all of our senses a poem that I wrote in Advanced Poetry two semesters ago came to mind. I have a difficult time being as descriptive in my fiction as I do in my poetry. For some reason it is easier for me descriptive when I know I don't have dialogue to rely on.

______________________________________________________________________

Winter Burial
(For Grandma Ruth)


It is the kind of cold that
makes your teeth chatter and your bones ache.
Ground glistening with fresh snow.
The sun remains hidden behind
ominous clouds threatening to dump
a fresh load of white powder.

The plot before us ripped open by large mechanical teeth,
only after heaters thaw the frozen Chicago ground.
The hole, a brown so dark it looks almost black
against the stark white landscape.
Six feet deep.

Mourners huddle together against the biting wind,
not wanting to mix physical pain with emotional.
The casket sits off to the side of the plot,
not ready to be placed in the abyss.

Men dressed in warm down coats, with gloved hands turn a crank.
The casket begins its journey,
back to the earth from where it came.

The rabbi begins the Kaddish
the prayer for the dead.

And the words start to flow from our lips.

Blog Post # 7: Ray Atkins has a Case of the Sweetwater Blues

My current work in progress, Sweetwater Blues, is a story about decisions and consequences.  It is a novel that explores how a life can change in the time it takes to flip a coin or blink an eye. The excerpt that follows deals with the recollections of a young man who, along with his lifelong friend, found out just how quickly lives could alter course.

Rodney and Palmer were deep into their celebration when they decided that the night was still young enough for another journey to the beer joint. It was a decision that changed the world. Many times during the ensuing years, Palmer Cray marveled that he was able to remember those moments at the cemetery so well, considering that he didn’t recollect much at all from the time period right after. But the memories were there, etched into his neurons just as surely as if they were carved onto the walls of his cell. All he had to do was close his eyes, and it all came back to him, unbidden and unwanted, as welcome as a hurricane. The stars were like Christmas lights strung against a backdrop of black velvet, sparkling beacons forever just out of his reach. The only cloud in the entire sky had wrapped itself around the moon like a cape against the chill of the evening. It was white and billowy, like chiffon. A wispy ground fog slithered to and fro among the white tombstones like a lazy snake easing from one grave to another in search of a mouse. Fireflies danced.

It wasn’t just visual images that came to him. He could inhale the scents of summer as they lingered on the gentle breeze, the thick, sugary perfume of the fat honeysuckle vines as they hung from the branches overhead, the cloying sweetness of the gardenias, and the overripe richness of the magnolias.  The crickets and the tree frogs croaked and skreeked back and forth as they skirmished for ascendency. From a great distance came a long, mournful note as a freight train approached a marked crossing. It was a slow moment in time, a rare glimpse of perfection, a calm before the gale descended and the tides surged. They had all the days of the world before them. Their lives were each an unblemished canvas, and they could paint just about whatever they wished.

Blog #7 Toni Michael

This scene is part of a short story I wrote in Creative Writing. Reading the rape scenes in The Prince of Tides and Lime Tree Can't Bear Orange, I was reminded of this scene. It saddens me how tragic the act of rape is and how common it is.

Before she even realized it, Rodrigo, his body pulsating with vitality, slithered beside her.
Roughly, he whispered in her ear as he always did, “If you love me you will never say anything about this.”
“Please, Rodrigo,” she whimpered, “Leave me alone.”
“You know that you don’t want that.” He said.
He was stroking her jet black hair and gently telling her to be quiet. Staring up at the ceiling Elena counted the thin unpainted boards that stretched from one side of the room to the other side of the room. It was her ritual as he pulled up her dress and wrestled her panties down, one, two three… ten…twenty…fifty. Cutting her open he began to penetrate her. She could feel the familiar splitting. The room was stifling hot and the sweat was pouring off his body making him slick as he moved up and down. She could feel his skin smacking hers with every pulse of his limbs on her body. She could feel the springs on her back as her body was pushed down into the mattress. She could taste the saltiness of his hand covering her mouth. The more excited he became the harder it was for her to breathe. The counting stopped.She let her mind wander. It detached like one of the magical floating balloons she had seen in the drug store. Floating high into the air, she could see everything: The cows chewing grass in the fields, the Columbus Drive Bridge where she would go and watch the draw bridge open wide for the boats to pass through, the lapping edges of the river where she would go and bathe. He rolled off her, pulled up his pants and walked out of the room without looking at her. She could feel the warm white liquid drip out of her body. Slowly, she pulled up her panties and walked outside.

Blog #7 Heather Cook--Fletcher's Creek

This is an excerpt from one of my short stories entitled "Fletcher's Creek." In these paragraphs, the main character, Drew, is driving down the winding road that leads to his high school all the while thinking of the girl next door.

It was Tuesday afternoon, and the leaves were beginning to change to a burnt mustard serenading the approach of autumn. Drew stepped off his front porch and headed toward his Wrangler. Tonight was the first football game of his senior year, and he wasn’t going to miss it. He didn’t play football, but he loved to watch. He loved the energy of the game and the intensity of the action. He loved the atmosphere of the stadium. He loved the smell of grilled hamburgers, and he loved the smoky taste of the burgers when they were taken right off the fire. He also loved that she was going to be there.

Drew rolled the top down of his Jeep Wrangler to let the crisp autumn air saturate his skin. The sun had not yet set, but he could see the moon in the sky, a sliver, almost like the fingernail of God. He drove through the winding street that led from his house to the main road. The trees bent over the asphalt and into the skyline like arms reaching for rescue. Yellow, red, and orange leaves littered the road and crunched as his tires sped over them. He gripped the handle bar of the Wrangler and steered with his right hand, all the while thinking of her and what he was to do should he have the opportunity to speak to her. He knew that she didn’t have a boyfriend, but he also knew that his confidence when he was around her decreased dramatically.

He drove in silence, listening only to the sound of the rushing wind and of the occasional bird. He enjoyed the drive to school because there were hardly any buildings or houses along the way. It was just him, his car, and nature. He was coming up to the bridge that crossed over Fletcher’s Creek, a serene spot which had become special to him because of all the time he spent there fishing and writing poetry. He hadn’t been to the creek in a couple of weeks, mainly because school had just started. He made it a purpose to stop by the creek tomorrow.

Blog #7 - Kathleen - Making Sense of My Writing

I've taken a sensory sort of essay of mine entitled Multi-Colored Memory and abridged it here so that it won't take up so much of everyone's time to read. So if it seems like there's something's missing, it's because there is! It's still FAR too long, though, and I apologize for the self-indulgence.

Remember how you felt when you were a child and got a big, new box of Crayola Crayons? You know, the 64-count box with the built-in sharpener on the back? You would almost shiver when you first opened it and saw all those fresh-tipped colors lined up like soldiers, ready and waiting to color your world. Remember the waxy smell the crayons emitted?

I'm going to take three colors out of that box: lemon yellow, sea green, and silver. And I'm going to use them to color a day at Tybee Island, Georgia, sometime around 1960. Of course, it is summertime. It's also a family reunion.

We arrive at Tybee during the lemon yellow morning, pulling up at Aunt Luella's large, rambling beach house, which is right on the ocean. The day is already bright and hot, and we step out onto the crunching, oyster shell driveway and shield our eyes from the sun.

I love this beach house. It is clean as a whistle and filled with bright oilcloth curtains and tablecloths. The bed frames are all painted shiny white or yellow or green, the mattresses covered with chenille bedspreads that offset the dark wooden walls.

In my memory, that morning is all yellow because it is filled with affectionate greetings and sunshine and the slipping on of brightly-colored bathingsuits. The house smells citrusy with cleaning fluid. And there is a big pitcher of lemonade in the ice box, so big that I need help to pour myself a glass. It's tart and bracing; the pulp scrapes my throat and tightens the taste buds in the back and sides of my tongue when I swallow.

When all of the relatives go down to the beach together, the day turns from lemon yellow to sea green. My cousin George, a Lutheran minister visiting from Alabama, is a robust and gregarious man who plunges into the surf, and we all follow suit. He holds court in the water, and the grown-ups gather around to talk and bob in the ocean. The gray green water is all around me, rising and falling, rising and falling, so much so that when I get in bed that night, the bed will do the same thing until I fall asleep.

I stick out my tongue to taste the salty sea; I study my shriveling finger tips. I flip over on my back and float a while, feeling the sun on my face and the gentle pressure of my dad's thumb and forefinger on one of my big toes, so that I don't drift away.

After dinner comes the silvery time. We all go out on the screened porch to be bathed and licked by the breeze. The moon is generous and full, but the grown-ups don't notice because they are too busy talking.

My tiny Great-Aunt Mamie and I are left out of the conversation, Mamie because she is a deaf mute and I because I am a child. I think that Mamie is signing to me, which panics me because I don't know how to tell her that I don't understand, but then I see that she is patting the empty place on the porch swing beside her and pointing to the moon. I nod my head and climb up beside her. We sit alone together and stare at the moon, which is like a perfectly round dollar thrown up into the sky. It casts a carpet of untarnished silver across the water that shimmers as the sea moves. It's simply brilliant. The chains of the porch swing creek, the adults laugh soft and low, the ocean murmurs. Mamie and I are silent and satisfied to be moonstruck.

A lemon yellow morning, a sea green afternoon, and a silvery night long, long ago. Everyone that was there that day is dead except for one boy cousin, my mother and me. I carefully put the three crayons back into the box so that they will not break, and I close the lid.

Blog #7 Melissa Davis

This is another excerpt from the retelling of Cupid and Psyche I am writing. Enid’s experiences at the beginning of the story are very sensory. She sees and feels everything for what she thinks is the first time while slowly becoming aware that she has been here before.

“Mistress, did you enjoy your sojourn?” a soft voice startled her and she whirled around. There stood an older man, dressed all in black. He waited patiently for her reply. In his hand he held a china cup and saucer. She could tell that the cup held a hot liquid from the steam and she thought she smelled Earl Grey tea.

“Yes, thank you…” she stammered trying to find his name.

“William, Mistress. I am the butler here at Camara.” William’s voice was deep and wispy, like he took shallow breaths between syllables.

She reached for the cup, but he motioned for her to follow him before she could grasp it. She shivered and realized it had been chilly outside. They walked down the left corridor and she was awed at the large number of canvas paintings. Each appeared, at a glance, to be originals, and each was in exquisite condition.

William stopped and turned to face her; he ushered her into a sitting room.

Plush, leather chairs and a large sofa invited her to sit and read from the bookshelves that dominated every wall in the room. A large fire crackled in the ornate marble fireplace and various lamps illuminated the room, creating a soft glow instead of the harsh light in the hall and foyer. Next to a chair was a tea cart, complete with a large ornate teapot and plate of tea biscuits. The smell of Earl Grey and vanilla filled the room. She walked over and sat down.

William handed her the cup of tea and smiled. Enid took a sip and an immediate warmth filled her as she tasted the wonderful mixture of bergamot and citrus. It was her favorite tea.

“Dinner will be served in an hour. Meghan laid out a gown. She is unpacking your trunk and will come for you before dinner. Is there anything else?” He never looked at her; he was always focused his glance over her left shoulder. She shook her head and he departed.

She wandered around the room sipping tea and feeling the warmth return. She had many questions. She passed a mirror and was astounded to realize she did not recognize her reflection. She studied her face for any familiar sign. Her face was oval with angular cheek bones and bright blue eyes. Her lips were full and pink. Her hair cascaded down her back in soft waves, the color as black as midnight. It amazed her that she did not even know her face. This caused not fear, but sadness within her. A single tear fell and she quickly moved on to the bookshelves.

She fingered the books on the shelves, pulling out a few here and there. Some were new with crisp dust jackets and unmarred pages, while others were so old that the cover illustrations were barely visible. Glancing at the titles, she remembered reading them at sometime or other. They seemed to be all her favorite titles. Random memories flooded her mind of school desks, childhood bedrooms, and parks with shady trees. None matched this house or this apparent life she lived now.

Blog 6 - Barbara - Writing: Message in a Bottle or Message in a Riddle?

Blog No. 6 – Barbara
Writing: Message in a Bottle or Message in a Riddle?

All of us have something to say. We say it with our body, with our actions, with our tone of voice, with the speed and distinctness of our speech, with the vocabulary we choose, with present or absent humor, and finally, with the message we convey in our story, which, in turn, exhibits our mindset, our attitude, our belief system, and our cultural background. Eighty percent of our communication is non-verbal, and since writing boils down to speech on paper, eighty percent of our writing is peripheral to the story itself.

I can tell you I own the cutest dog with fuzzy ears, a shiny taffy coat, and a bushy tail, that likes to chase boomerangs and that kowtows to my cat. Or I can tell you Golden Retrievers, known for their low intelligence quotient, will chase anything that moves, regardless of risk, and that mine in particular is so dumb he thinks my Siamese cat is Godzilla in disguise.

Or I can ask you, Have you ever watched a dog chase a boomerang and get clobbered by it? And have you ever watched a Siamese cat look upon the scene with all-knowing and all-patient benevolence. On the other hand, I can tell you about inter-species interaction and give you statistics on canines and felines impressing upon each other as infants, convincing each other that they’re littermates.

Conversely, I can tell you that (yawn) my dog, for the umpteenth time today, has caught the darn boomerang on its return trek and has gotten knocked out cold, to the great boredom of (yawn) my cat.

The way I tell you the incident conveys, among other things, my attitude toward stupid (and perhaps sweet) dogs and intelligent (and perhaps mean) cats, but also my attitude toward you, the reader.

If I’m dealing with human fictional characters, say Suzie and Jeff, and they embark on a serious conversation, let’s say, about their beliefs, and Suzie explains to Jeff how she went from atheist to Christian, no matter how Jeff responds, I’ve exposed my own beliefs in a nutshell, via Suzie, if I, the writer and god of this piece of fiction, happen to believe in God and Jesus Christ—which I do.

On the other hand, if I’m dealing with human historic, nonfictional characters, such as, say, Flannery O’Connor and Franz Liszt, and I let them speak according to their documented personalities and recorded quotes, then Flannery can say something like, There are too many writers on the loose because bad teachers graduate them. And then I’m letting O’Connor’s opinion come through to Liszt, and Liszt, known for his brilliance and humor, laughs. Here, the historic characters communicate in an authentic way and convey their convictions to the reader. I may not exhibit my personal opinion but I do show you (as opposed to telling you) O’Connor’s sharp mind and humor.

My point is this: I can oh-so-easily insert my message-in-a-bottle in a novel, anywhere I choose, in the dialogue between Suzie and Jeff. The words work as my servants to express myself. However, in my piece on O’Connor and Liszt, a combination of biography and fantasy (they meet through a time-warp), I convey my respect for the two artists, one a writer and the other a composer, in the clarity with which they express themselves. Here the words work as my masters to express other people and, indirectly, myself.

In the novel The White Tiger, we read Adiga’s views on the “true” New India, past, present and future. His protagonist, Halwai, states that a half-baked man is one who reads and writes without understanding (8-9). Here Adiga has placed his neck neatly on the chopping block: he fails to recognize that the understanding of the heart (integrity) counts far higher than the understanding of the mind. And so, at the very end, we’re left with a rich but nervous Halwai, who still doesn’t understand the meaning of life. Halwai misses the boat because Adiga misses the boat. And Halwai claims to be India’s “tomorrow”!(4).

Blog Post # 6: Agendas?! Ray Atkins Don't Need No Stinking Agendas!

The question of whether or not there is an agenda underlying my writing is an interesting one. If by agenda we mean an active attempt on my part to sway the reader to my way of thinking on one or more subjects, then no, I don’t believe so. I don’t try to coerce my readers into voting a certain way. Nor do I attempt to convince them to adhere to a particular religious belief or to subscribe to values I hold dear. I do have strongly-held beliefs on politics and religion, and on a large number of other subjects, and if I am asked for these, I will certainly share them, sometimes at length.  Otherwise, it's don't ask, don't tell.

When I read fiction, I do so to help me forget about serious issues for awhile, and I write it in the assumption that there are many other readers out there who could use a break from the bald realities of the world, as well.

I do, however, consistently write in a narrative voice that helps to convey a constant point of view. It is my firmly-held view that life is a combination of the ridiculous and the sublime, that we are players on the cosmic stage who spend our time on this world reacting to forces beyond our understanding and control. These forces can be termed random chance if the reader so chooses, or fate, or they can be examples of the good Lord moving in strange and mysterious ways.  Your belief in the nature of causality is your business.

My books are not about what this phenomenon is, but rather about how normal people behave in the presence of circumstances beyond their control. To paraphrase a famous quotation by someone whose name escapes me, we can’t win, we can’t break even, and we can’t even get out of the game. This philosophy is reflected in the narrative voice of my fiction.

In the following scene from The Front Porch Prophet, John Robert Longstreet—who lost his wife to a venomous cancer at a young age—responds to his own mother’s request that he accompany her and his young son to church. Note that he does not question religion, or God, or the politics of healthcare, or euthanasia, and that he does not interfere with his mother’s decision to take his son to church. The scene is about his reaction to that which he could not prevent or understand.

“You ought to come with us, John Robert,” she said.

“I expect I’ll wait awhile. Me and the Lord don’t see eye to eye these days. We’ll get around to talking, directly.” But they never did. The betrayal had been too great, the theft of Rose into the night too harsh. John Robert had looked deep into his heart and found no forgiveness. He knew he was a minute speck in the vastness of the cosmos, but he was the injured party and expected an accounting. But no bush on the farm burst into voice and flame to reveal why Rose’s presence had been required elsewhere. Skulled specters did not trot in across the back pasture under a white flag of truce to clarify why her transition from here to there had been so ungodly cruel. So John Robert did not forgive. And he did not forget.

Blog 6 - Jessica Quinn Faith-based book

I was excited to see this blog topic. This is exactly what I’ve been dealing with on my current writing project, Faith-Based Public Relations. The entire focus of the book is faith-based, but for me, that base is Christian. I’ve had to work to figure out how to reach the masses honestly without turning them off by the title. Is it Faith-Based or is it Christian? It is an element of both.

I have found that when the majority of America hears “faith-based” they assume Christian, but those who don’t are adamantly opposed to the two being interchangeable. This has presented the biggest problem because what I do is not “Christian Public Relations” which denotes that I only work with Christians in Christian media. Can you begin to see the dilemma? That said, I do only choose to work with Christian clients, but my specialty is getting them into the mainstream media and helping them not lose their Christian message in the process. I don’t just deal with Christian media, quite the contrary and I don’t want that to be assume. That is why I titled it Faith-Based Public Relations instead of Christian Public Relations—it gives a broader scope.

For those in the media that I work with, the Faith-Based title will make sense. For those in Christian colleges in the Journalism and Communications departments, they will be so relieved to finally have a trade-friendly textbook their students can use that doesn’t tell them they have to check their faith at the door in order to be in this business. At least that is the goal, and what I’m hearing so far. My niece wishes this were out before she had her PR class at Virginia Wesleyan. I also hope that those who need to do their own PR and can’t afford to hire an agency will be able to use this book as a tool to do just that. It will teach public relations, but throughout the book are personal stories, anecdotes, that bring the lessons home and they are all connected to my work in various industries with Christian clients. I want people to learn the craft of marrying public relations and their faith. There is a huge industry out there doing just that, but with so many mainstream companies buying out the Christian companies (record labels, publishing houses, etc.), the staff often doesn’t get the nuance of what they are now promoting. You promote the artist/author the same way, with the same basic skill and relationships, but for a Christian client, you do it keeping their faith in the story. That is what I want to teach to the PR masses. Sometimes keeping the faith in the story makes it a stronger story, sets it apart, and makes for a better experience for the media outlet.

Photo: Recent client, Stephen Mansfield (author), on FOX News Channel's Hannity on the Great American Panel.

Blog 6 by Brittany Leazer: The Hope of My Hidden Agenda

There is not much hidden about my agenda when I write. I have openly said many times that I want to write things that are redemptive, in the religious sense. I want people to find a nugget of hope in my writing. I write what I believe, and I believe in the hope, love, and freedom in Jesus Christ. It is very hard for me to stay away from my belief as a writer, because I feel there is no point in writing if I can't offer what, I think, the world needs to hear.

Most of the time, I try to be subtle with interjecting faith principles into my writing. I do not want to be overbearing and hit people over the head with it. I like to interject my faith with writing the truth. I understand that there are things that people have gone through, or things that people have done that are hard to deal with and hard to write. As a writer, I feel I need to write about these topics in a way that deals with them on an emotional and spiritual level. I want to show people the truth of life and that even though things may feel hopeless there is always hope. "Hopefully," I can write about this hope in a way that is compelling and not pushy. For me writing is about telling the truth, even in fiction. I believe that everyone needs the "Truth" in their lives.