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When Writing and Life Intersect: Hidden Treasures

A few months ago, I wrote a post about Peter Brown’s book, The Curious Garden — a story about a young boy who turns an abandoned piece of land into a place of beauty, creativity and community. If you read the Author’s Note in the back of Brown’s book, he talks about the inspiration for his story: The High Line, and old rail line that was used to carry freight trains above Manhattan.

I don’t know which came first, Brown’s book or the High Line Park. Either way, both are beautiful.

high line

From The Morning News: “…[T]he beauty of the High Line lies in the evidence that, even in Manhattan, plants can and do just take root and grow. Coneflower, lamb’s ears, onion grass, and clover. “

I’ve been to New York City once, years ago. If I ever get back there again (especially in the summer), you’ll know where to find me.

Will you use the faith you’ve found to re-shape the world around?
(from the hymn, Will You Come and Follow Me)

What’s hidden in your city?

photo credits: “high line” by apasciuto on Flickr; in the trees by Barry Munger (via The High Line website image gallery)

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Well, this is going to be awkward.

You can bet if I could go back in time I would change a few things. I’d have stuck with my piano lessons and learned how to play show tunes and the Blues. I wouldn’t have quit cross country in the seventh grade just because of a few side cramps. And, I would have packed three less bags to carry on the train trip I took from Dallas to New York to Milwaukee after I graduated college.

Nobody likes to sit next to a traveler with too much baggage.

And, that email I wrote today (because my inner editor kept hounding me about a typo)? I would have sent it a week ago.

Here’s the thing about my inner editor: sometimes she’s there to hassle me, sometimes to push me forward, sometimes to keep me from making a mistake. Like announcing a win before the award letters go out.

Last Saturday, Pen Parentis published their long list of winners for the 2011 Writing Fellowship for New Writers. When I saw my name in Second Place, I couldn’t help but squeal: in my house, on Facebook, here. But there was a typo in my name as they printed it, and my inner editor quietly suggested I, you know, check it all out before I run off hooting and hollering.

But, who wants to do that really?

. . .

An anxious writer who can’t get a typo out of her head.

. . .

When I finally sent the email asking if there might be a confirmation in the mail – electronic or otherwise – for posterity, I mentioned the typo as reason why I wanted to just “double check.” The reply I received, very polite, apologized for the typo and more so for the clerical error.

Turns out, I didn’t place second.

. . .

It would be funny, maybe, if it didn’t feel like a sucker punch.

But here’s the thing about writing: sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, and sometimes there’s a typo that makes a rejection email feel like a pin prick.

You write anyway.

‘The only reason writers survive rejection is because they love writing so much that they can’t bear the idea of giving it up’ ~ M.J. Rose (as quoted in this excellent blog post on Beyond the Margins).

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Boxing, Writing, and Mrs. Quinn

This is how I feel right now...

I took a boxing class once, learned the art of the jab, the uppercut, the hook. I even sparred with a guy, but he just played nice. He knew I didn’t pack much of a punch.

If he’d really fought me, though, knocked me out even, would I have gotten back in the ring to face him again?

Maybe. If I really loved boxing. But, I’m too much of a softy, and I’m a definite people-pleaser. Even if I did get him with my mean, left hook, I’d have been apologizing profusely in between subsequent ducks.

How does this relate to writing? A couple of Wednesdays ago, I let the day slip by — without saying a word. I’d planned on writing a flash fiction piece, taking on Wordsmith.org’s word of the day, whipping out a story from scratch to post here by midnight. I had an intro, had an idea, and spent the entire day (and then some) wrestling with the story, circling the first paragraph, looking for an opening.

But that story tossed me around like a rag doll and knocked me flat, so at 1am I called it.

It would be easy to take a little failure and turn it into a big sign, to throw that story to the curb and maybe even abandon word prompts all together. But, I love word prompts, and I love flash fiction (and, honestly, that story isn’t dead, it just isn’t finished).

So, I’m getting back in the ring.

Today’s word on Wordsmith.org:

stupefy. verb tr.: 1. To make someone so bored or tired as unable to think clearly. 2. To amaze.

PS. I spent all day on this story, and now I can barely see how it goes back to the word of the day. But, hey…it’s a story.

*****

Mrs. Quinn

Nicki fell in love with Mrs. Quinn on that first day of eighth grade Algebra. It was the way she wrote her name on the board that caught Nicki’s eye. Mrs. Quinn stood at attention – in her tight bun, stiff shirt, and a long skirt that hung just over the tops of her shoes – and let her hand draw out her name in a smooth series of hills and valleys and curliques.

Mrs. Quinn.

Even her algebraic expressions, with all those X’s and Y’s, showed flair. Never mind the way her skirt shimmied back and forth, to the rhythm of a song, Nicki was sure, during an intense moment of factoring.

But, she especially loved Mrs. Quinn because of the way she handled Jenny Baker, when she caught Jenny on exam day with a cheat sheet stuffed up the sleeve of her Abercrombie and Fitch hoodie. Mrs. Quinn drew a big, fat zero on Jenny’s paper and said “Aber and Fitch, as you call it Ms. Baker, has no place in Algebra, and cheating on a test gets you a visit to Mr. Harper’s office.”

“Mrs. Quinn,” Jenny held out her hands. “I’ll miss the football game if I fail this test! I’m head cheerleader!”

Mrs. Quinn ignored Jenny’s boo-hooing and showed her the door.

“Jenny’s pissed,” Nicki’s best friend Amy told her later in Study Hall. “She said she’s gonna have her mom call a lawyer.”

“For missing the game?” Nicki asked. “Serves her right.”

Nicki tried to push her hair back out of her face, but her Cerebral Palsy got in the way. Her hand circled in front of her forehead a few times, but it kept missing the hair. Nicki was tired after working through her Algebra homework and writing out her English assignment; her Cerebral Palsy never cooperated when she was tired.

“I got it,” Amy said. She tucked the hair behind Nicki’s ear and shook her head as she went on about Mrs. Quinn. “She’s cold-hearted, Nicki. I mean, it’s like she’s got no love. It’s Homecoming!”

Nicki didn’t feel one bit bad for Jenny, though, and she knew Amy was wrong. About the love part.

Nicki thought about how Mrs. Quinn looked her straight in the eye when she handed back her papers. She left pretty cursive notes on them that said “Great job!” and “You’re a natural with numbers!” and never wrote something stupid like “practice your penmanship.” She spelled out weekly homework assignments on the board like they were poems, rolling the letters together in delicious combinations and always ending the stream of instructions with a loose and curvy line underneath.

Mrs. Quinn loved math and she loved writing notes on the board and – according to Jenny – she loved Mr. Harper. Amy told her that Jenny said she saw Mrs. Quinn making out with Mr. Harper after school one day. Even though Jenny was a liar, Nicki imagined Mrs. Quinn writing him notes.

Filling the page with pretty letters.

Nicki wondered if Mrs. Quinn would sign them, “With love, Bethany.” If she would round off her Y with a flower or a heart or tease him with one of her smooth, curvy lines underneath.

* photo credit: jnyemb on Flickr