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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

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Michael Perry, Date Night, & a Writing Prompt

Technically, I don’t meet up with my friends at the retirement center until Saturday, but today is as good a day as any to introduce this month’s writing prompt.

I admit, I’ve never read any of Michael Perry’s books. He’s published several (his most recent hit the New York Times Bestseller list); he’s a Wisconsin writer; my husband loves his work. I know he’s good. Still, I had only admired the covers of his books when I made a date to attend his reading with my husband last week.

Let me say two things. First, It isn’t easy to plan a date night when you’re working hard and minding kids and scraping together money for a sitter. But this night was worth it: I love author readings, my husband loves Michael Perry’s books, and we stopped at a local burger joint for dinner, where I ate the best bag of fries. Ever. Not to mention the company of the man sitting next to me.

Second, the best part of a good book is listening to the author read from it, especially when an author, like Michael Perry, reads so well. It was an excellent event. He filled the spaces in between excerpts with life stories and glimpses into a writer’s world (to which I can relate). He is one of those authors I would love to sit and visit with for a while. Rather, I’d love to sit and listen to him and my husband visit for a while. They would have plenty to discuss. My husband isn’t a writer, but he tunes into life’s small details that I tend to ignore; he makes note of people living on the periphery. He’s a man of many questions, and because of that, he knows a little about a lot. Michael Perry does the same – the details, the people, the questions we all ask – and weaves those observations into great prose. Now, the question for me isn’t so much if I’ll read his book, but which of his books I’ll read first.

Date night and a good book. That’s all it takes to bring to light your next writing prompt.

From Visiting Tom:

I can make no special claim on Tom Hartwig. The path to his door was well worn by a parade of feet other than my own before I first crossed his threshold, and so it is right through the present. I visit him whenever I need a piece of iron cut, bent, or welded. Sometimes I visit in the company of my wife and two daughters; we bring food and stay for supper. Sometimes I visit to drop off a dozen eggs. Sometimes I visit just to visit. I rarely come to Tom seeking anything more than ten minutes of his time and a size-sixty-eleven welding rod. He is not my mentor, I am not his acolyte, we are simply neighbors. And yet with each visit I accrue certain clues to comportment — as a husband, as a father, as a citizen. (I also accrue certain clues regarding the fabrication of cannons, the rebuilding of Farmall tractors, and how to run a sawmill, although due to my profound mechanical ineptitude, any observations I might make in these areas should be regarded as anecdotal rather than instructional).

The Prompt.

Man on doorsteps, SwedenNeighbors. They are a critical part of our landscape whether we live in the city or in the country. They can make or break our time on the block. I’ve had questionable neighbors, good neighbors, absent neighbors. There was Linda, skin and bones, who lived on the first floor of our Irving Street apartment building. She kept her door open a crack, and you couldn’t help but peer inside as you passed by. Then, there was eighty year old Ruth, who welcomed us to our first house with a strong Irish smile. She stopped by with homemade chicken noodle soup every chance she got. And, the couple down the street whose whole front yard is made up of creeping phlox? Sometimes I wonder.

Tell us about your neighbor, about a time you depended on their kindness, in action or in thought, or about the time you discovered their secret.

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* Black and white photo credit: Swedish National Heritage Board on flickr.com
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Favorite Lines & This Month’s Writing Prompt

Saturday marked another hour with my writing friends at the retirement center, reading stories and laughing about gaps of knowledge between generations. There was a story read about a young woman, and letters to a soldier overseas during World War II, and V-mail. “What’s V-mail?” I asked, to which I got the same reaction I gave my niece once when we stood in the library and she dared to say, “what’s a card catalog?” Mouths fell open and someone said, “Oh. You’re so young.”

We have fun around the table.

And, what I love most about meeting up with these folks each month is their excitement at being there, even when, as I found out, last month’s writing prompt proved more of an obstacle than inspiration. Maybe there were too many choices. Maybe the prompts weren’t quite clear. Maybe they just didn’t click. Sometimes prompts are like that, but writers tackle them anyways.

And, that’s exactly what they did: they wrote anyway.

Favorite Lines

One of my favorite phrases came from a woman who’s been writing flash fiction. In her piece, she described an apartment ever so briefly but quite clear: with landlord-tan walls and scuff-board floors. That’s all I needed to see an exact image. Another favorite line came from a different story, written by a gentleman in the group, about a visit to an attic: You knew right away from the musty, stuffy smell, that you were about to reach the third floor destination. That’s immediate recall for me, the attic smell that lures you to the door and begs you to step inside. We talked about that, too, about how certain descriptions like that do more for a piece (and the reader) than just saying something is “old” or an apartment looks  “run down.”

We meet again in September at a time when we will be crossing into Fall, waking up to crisp mornings and watching the sun set a little too soon in the evening. This month’s writing prompt focuses on two quotes, by Natalie Goldberg and Russell Baker, and asks us to look back, then, on the season of summer.

The Prompt

Memoir doesn’t cling to an orderly procession of time and dates, marching down the narrow aisle of your years on this earth. Rather it encompasses the moment you stopped, turned your car around, and went swimming in a deep pool by the side of the road. You threw off your gray suit, a swimming trunk in the backseat, a bridge you dived off. You knew you had an appointment in the next town, but the water was so clear. When would you be passing by this river again? The sky, the clouds, the reeds by the roadside mattered. You remembered bologna sandwiches made on white bread; you started to whistle old tunes.
~ Natalie Goldberg, Old Friend from Far Away

This paragraph from the introduction in Natalie Goldberg’s book on writing memoir not only talks about the way we remember, it also hints at summer. It’s late August. Three hours north of here, the leaves show signs of weathering. The tomato plants in my garden have grown wiry, so that nothing is left on the vine but a few remnants of (what could have been) prime fruit. My kids won’t turn any more tan or earn one more freckle; the sun sits too low on the horizon. Swim goggles have been broken or lost; one last romp at the pool leaves my son red in the eyes and full of heavy yawns. It’s time.

Time to move on to what comes next. We let go, of cool June nights and unbearable July days, of too much time at the pool or not enough days spent at the lake, of excitement in new endeavors and grief in goodbyes to a close friend. We move on, but memory stays with us.

Ah, summer, what power you have to make us suffer and like it.
~Russell Baker

Tell us about one summer when the suffering was worth it. Or maybe it was a summer when the suffering ceased.

* Photo credits: alvimann and melodi2 on morguefile.com.

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