Finding My Footing, Making Connections

On the Outside.

We're not old at allIt’s been four months since I began facilitating the Creative Writing class at Retirement center, and I’m still trying to find my place within the group. I love these writers: they’re enthusiastic, prompt, always willing to share their stories. But, at times, I struggle with how to guide them.

They are a diverse group: a few are interested in submitting their work, others just enjoy reading their stories, some attend simply to listen. And, in the one hour we are allotted (the center keeps those folks busy!), there is no time for a real critique, only a few moments for reflection on individual pieces, and much of the discussion leads to reminiscing common experience.

This is where I stumble most, when the great divide of a generation(s) gap leaves me speechless.

Sometimes, the writers lead their own discussion, with several heads nodding and plenty of “Oh yes, I too remember when….” For those moments, I am grateful. But, when the table is quiet and all eyes turn to me, I feel the pressure of a lost connection. I know the common experiences (between young and old) are there, and I know, once I push past those uncomfortable feelings, I will find them.

Get Personal.

What I need to do, I realize now, is share a little more of me. At our monthly meetings, they often ask me to read what I’ve written on the prompt. So far, I’ve shared short pieces of fiction (since that’s what I tend to write). Next time, though, I’ll do what I’m asking them to do: dig deep for a memory that begs to be shared.

The Prompt.

Breaking the rules.* That’s it. No explanation, just three little words. But those words, I imagine, will yield stories to which we all can relate.

How do you break through uncomfortable feelings? How do you find connections with folks twice your age? Or, better yet, when do you break the rules?

* This month’s prompt comes straight from the Readers Write section of The Sun Magazine. If you decide to write on “Breaking the rules,” consider submitting your piece to The Sun. The deadline is January 1st.

Photo credit: Iñaki Pérez de Albéniz on flickr.com

A Book Recommendation & Guest: Patricia Ann McNair

The Book

“Our actual Mission is to use stories to build community. It’s not just about creating good stories; it’s about employing those stories to connect people to one another.” ~ Amanda Delheimer Dimond, in Briefly Knocked Unconscious by a Low-Flying Duck

Briefly Knocked Unconscious by a Low-Flying Duck is a collection of stories originally told to a live audience on the 2nd story stage. While there is something quite powerful about listening to a story read out loud – about the effect of the words as they circle the air and settle into our ears, our mind, our hearts – the stories on the pages of this anthology carry as much weight as I imagine they did on stage.

As Dimond says in the quote above, stories serve to connect us. Pick up this book and find yourself in these pages: in a moment between father and daughters that doesn’t go according to plan but unfolds in perfect succession; or at a funeral when everyone knows the truth but no one speaks a word. One of my favorite stories, written by Patricia Ann McNair, speaks to the power of place, how, whether we leave a place whole or broken, memories settle deep within us and urge us to return.

The Guest

I’m honored to host Patricia here, where she writes about confined spaces and moments of reveal and the journey it takes to reach the crux of our story.

Driving the Story
by Patricia Ann McNair

On a long car trip to Montana from Chicago with a friend I barely knew, I told her about how, when I was seven or so, my mother made me return a shoplifted lipstick and a tiny plastic doll to Woolworths. The embarrassment was meant to steer me away from a life of crime, I think. I told my friend the details: my mouth so dry I squeaked I forgot to pay for these; the doll’s dress marked by my moist palms; my mother in front of the store in the car with her window down, the smoke from her cigarette lifting into the blue suburban sky.

On the same trip, my friend told me about what it was like living with her schizophrenic brother. About each of the once-loved family cats buried in the backyard by her father after their deaths of old age mostly, but sometimes of something else, some feline disease.

When I met my half-brother for the first time he was in his fifties, I was in my thirties. And we drove over the backroads of inland Maine, up and down the mountains, past freezing streams. It was autumn, 14 years after the autumn our father died. He told stories about growing up without his father; I told stories about growing up with mine. With ours.

On a car trip in Vermont in the late summer of 2000, a man from England told me about his life in London, his art, the coal miner grandfather who helped his mother raise him after his father died in a military accident when he was five. I told him about the trip I took to Cuba just months before, about my quiet life in the city with my cat, about my impending divorce. The man’s name is Philip Hartigan. We have since married.

So what is it about car trips that compel passengers to tell one another stories? Is it the closeness, perhaps? How being trapped in a small space for some time makes it near impossible not to want to fill the empty air between you? Radio stations come and go as you follow the curves of the highway; talk is better than static. There is only so much music you can agree on. With that audience so close by, how can we not want to share something, to reveal something? They have to listen. It is their only option.

It is this car-journey-story-impulse that led me to the telling of “Return Trip,” my essay in the anthology Briefly Knocked Unconscious by a Low-Flying Duck. Philip and I were on the road for hours, returning to a place that had become important to us. We’d made the trip other times, and each time we learned a bit more about one another.

I don’t want to tell too much about what is in this essay; I am hoping you will pick up the book and read it. In brief: September 11. Woods. A cabin. Students. A cat. My mother. Writing. Dunes. Fall leaves. Love. Death. Place. And the piece, finally finished to be read/told on stage before an audience, came to me like stories do when we are telling them: in bits and pieces, with tangents and sidebars and strange connections. As Philip and I drove to a cabin in the woods some years after the first time we made that drive, I couldn’t help but remember what happened here along the way. And here. And here. And when we reached our destination, I had to write it all down.

It might sound like this was an easy process, a quick one—just capture the moments on the page. Ha! Writing is rarely that easy for me, and I sometimes wonder if a piece is ever really finished. This one, “ReturnTrip,” took a few years. I wrote the first draft(s) in two weeks. That is, two weeks of daily writing, four hours at a time. I shopped it around. It got rejected. I put it away. I came back to it. Tweaked and tinkered. Put it away again. Then, when it came time for me to prepare a piece for 2nd Story, the wonderful Chicago-based live reading and storytelling series, this was the one I came back to. Why hadn’t it been successful before? What did it need? One of the really interesting things about 2nd Story stories is that nearly all of the stories told have a very visible point of discovery, some might even say an epiphany. A place in the story when the teller finally understands the purpose of what she is telling, and the audience can, too. I think, up until I was working on the essay for this particular reading, I did not really know what the story was about. I knew what I was telling, the events of the piece, the happenings. But I had yet to discover its “aboutness.”

I have a friend who tells stories that he thinks sometimes go on too long. (Hi, Ted!) I don’t agree with him; I enjoy his anecdotes greatly. But often at some time during his telling, he says: My point—and I do have one—is… Here’s the thing—“Return Trip” needed a point. My point is… After some years, I finally figured it out. My point.

I’m not gonna tell you what is here; you gotta read it. But below is a little taste of what fueled the piece.

Back in the car, with my mother. We are driving through woods turning colors, and she is asleep. It is the last driving trip we will take together and I want to tell her something. Stories. Something. I want her to tell me what I don’t yet know. My point, Mom, I would say if she were listening, and I do have one.

I do.

Patricia Ann McNair is the author of The Temple of Air, her own collection of short stories that has received much recognition, including the Devil’s Kitchen Reading Awardee in Prose, Finalist Awardee for Midland Society of Authors, and Finalist for Chicago Writers Association Book of the Year Award. She’s received four Illinois Arts Council Awards and was nominated for the Carnegie Foundation US Professor of the Year. McNair teaches in Columbia College Chicago’s Fiction Writing Department. For more about McNair and her writing, visit her blog.

Briefly Knocked Unconscious by a Low-Flying Duck releases from Elephant Rock Books on November 12th. Watch the book trailer here.

Bread, Books, and Coffee

Fall has a way of throwing me off balance. The weather turns cool, the rain drizzles, and my laptop doesn’t look half as cozy as the comforter on my bed. Hibernate first, write later.

That’s how I felt all last week, and very little writing got done. My mind wasn’t completely on sleep mode, though. I was busy feeding my creative self with other projects. And, sometimes, I was just busy.

Bread

In an effort to warm up and watch something develop (especially with my writing at a standstill), I dove back into the world of baking with yeast. Yeast and I are old enemies, in a kind and loving way. Yeast teases me, hints at some level of greatness, then leaves me with some concoction that weighs on the heavy side. The loaf of bread I pulled out of the oven last week, dense as it was, lacked substance, if you know what I mean.

It smelled good. It even looked good. But, all that kneading and watching and hoping yielded a rock-solid lump of grain that took a strong arm to cut into slices. If there was a circle of bakers similar to my writing critique group, I’d had marched that sucker straight to the table and begged them to show me no mercy. What is the secret to raising a perfect loaf of bread? And, can that translate into a good story? Or, at least a good sandwich?

Books

Remember that comforter I mentioned? I wasn’t kidding when I said I went into hiding. Come 9pm most nights, I crawled into bed with a good book. I started and finished reading Hillary Jordan’s When She Woke, a story about what happens when religion and politics mix too closely and women’s rights are thrown to the wayside. If you like Margaret Atwood, you’ll love this book. If you swing to the right, you might not like it so much. I don’t want to push politics here, but, while Jordan’s book is futuristic, much of the story hits way too close to home.

On a lighter note, and to balance my reading experience, I’ve also been sifting through stories of the past. My daughter and I are knee-deep into the Little House on the Prairie series, currently reading The Long Winter (no wonder I’m in hibernation mode). My son and I are halfway through Blackwater Ben, a YA fiction about a boy working with his father in the cookhouse at a lumber camp. Both books are set around the 1800’s, around the same time as that novel I’m finishing up. So, while I’ve been reading with the kids, my brain has been absorbing nuances of the 19th century life and studying the techniques of writing historical fiction.

Coffee

I’ve been drinking decaf for months now, maybe even a year. I can’t exactly remember, which is perhaps a side effect of cutting the caffeine. At any rate, I poured myself a cup of half decaf half regular last Saturday, and um, wow.

I finally sat down to do some writing and was typing 100 words per minute. No, I didn’t count the words, but who can count when you’re zipping through a draft of something that reads really well on a caffeine high. I even managed to rake several piles of leaves from the back yard all the way down the driveway to the curb like there was no tomorrow and somebody get me a refill on that coffee, would you?

Lordy.

What’s your story? Hibernation, or heavy on the coffee?