Loved. Lost. Found. The Reading

image: Loved. Lost. Found. the anthologyLast Saturday, nine women and men over the age of 70 gathered in front of a room at Harwood Place in Wauwatosa to share essays and poems they’d written during the past year.

They looked entirely at ease, despite the looming podium and microphone. I, on the other hand, trotted back and forth before the event began, shuffling papers, asking if anyone wanted water, working up a good sweat and rapid pulse. I could have used some of their serenity (even if they were faking it).

But while our levels of anxiety differed and our ages spanned miles apart, there was so much more that connected us that day.

Jacqui Banaszynski says, “Stories are parables. . . . Stories are history. . . . Each one stands in for a larger message…a guidepost on our collective journey.” When people gather together, writers or not, it doesn’t matter where we come from. Our stories–our histories–connect us. Each of us is daughter or son, husband or wife, old hat at this or novice at that. In the essays and poems read from the podium last Saturday, we heard about first loves, found objects, and failed knitting attempts. I am generations apart from the Harwood Place Writers, but I can relate.

This event is one of the highlights of my year and one of the reasons I continue to lead their class. These writers come to the table every month with open minds, tales to share, and a genuine fellowship that begins with a smile.

IMG_3285Congratulations to the Harwood Place Writers on another year of fantastic stories!

 

The Legacy of Storytelling

“I don’t know how it is for everyone else, but for me, it can’t be about the money, at least not entirely. I want to look back on my life and know that I did something worthwhile.” ~ Jennifer Niesslein, “The Price of Writing”

The work we do as writers isn’t always about the making money. It isn’t always about crafting the perfectly structured essay or flash fiction either. Sometimes, it’s just about telling the story.

IMG_1081I’m in the process of putting together a third anthology of work by writers at Harwood Place: Lost, Found, and Loved. I don’t get paid to work with these writers or to design the anthology, but the time spent with them and this project is precious nonetheless. As I retype their pieces into my computer from handwritten or printed copies (only a few of them use email),  I realize again how much I love their stories. I also gain a better understanding about my purpose within this group.

IMG_0087When I write an essay or a story, I will spend hours, days, months on end revising, restructuring, agonizing at times (I can be quite dramatic). For these writers, certain stories will undergo deeper rewrites, but more often they share their story at the table, consider revising a little, and move on. They look forward to the next prompt, the next meeting, the next reading.

I’ve struggled with this in the past, thinking I’m their teacher and shouldn’t I press them to do more–reinforce that the real writing is in the rewriting? But, I’ve come to accept that their decision is perfectly okay.

Doris Lessing says:

Humanity’s legacy of stories and storytelling is the most precious we have. All wisdom is in our stories and songs. A story is how we construct our experiences. At the very simplest, it can be: ‘He/she was born, lived, and died.’

The truth for these writers at Harwood Place–their experience at the table and, later, in front of the podium–is that they are there for each other. Last Saturday at our recent meeting, they had written on a simple prompt, “When we played cards…” (based on “Poker” by Paul Farley). As they took turns reading their stories out loud, the room filled with laughter, more personal accounts, deeper connections, and a solid sixty-minutes of pure joy.

That is the legacy of storytelling.

IMG_0226That makes the writing worthwhile.

* Check the Events page for the date, time, and place of our next reading.

The Art of a Rough Draft Leads to Lessons of the Day

10906529_10205987025983758_5218993930413556726_nI haven’t spoken much about it lately, but I still meet monthly with a group of senior citizens for a creative writing class. The size of the group ebbs and flows, but the energy remains constant (we have a third anthology in the works and another reading scheduled for January). I continue to be amazed not only with their stories but often with their methods.

IMG_2123One woman always types her pieces on thin paper in cursive script. Another brings essays revised using old-school tactics: sissor-cut passages scotch-taped over an earlier version of a draft. But last Saturday when I sat next to the oldest member of the group, I witnessed a new kind of “rough” draft (don’t think “tactile,” think abbreviated).

This writer is 95 years old. Her hands shake, but that doesn’t stop her from putting pencil to paper. She often comes with a handwritten draft, but this time I noticed something different about her copy: words in struggling script on the top half of the page followed by row after row of loops and curved lines, right angles and tiny circles. Like Arabic but not.

IMG_2403I worried at first, thinking she’d fallen into scribbling and had not noticed. But as she tapped her pencil along each symbol in quiet study, as if she were reading word by word, I realized she’d written her draft in shorthand. When I asked her about it, she said she can read her shorthand easier than her own writing these days. Determined to do the work, it didn’t matter how she got the story down on paper, just that she got it down.

Shorthand is a lost art, I am sure, and I wish I had taken a photo of this draft with its transformation from writing I recognized to short, succinct strokes that illustrated storytelling in a magical way. Still fascinated by the image the next day, I did what any writer would: research.

IMG_2406Here’s where I am ever grateful for libraries within walking distance and for compact shelving that houses old books. I found a shorthand dictionary with a list of 19,000 “most popular words” in 1930 correspondence, like festoon and quinquennial (!) and another book entitled Thomas Natural Shorthand.

I can’t imagine trying to learn shorthand, (though I wonder if that might up my word count in a single day of noveling). But after reading just a few pages of Natural Shorthand, it’s clear that Mr. Thomas understood the challenges of writing in general. His five “Suggestions for Mastering Shorthand” fit right in as good advice for writers today.

1. “Be systematic. A single week of planned, systematic study is worth a month of haphazard endeavor.” My flawed efforts revealed: some days “haphazard” is systematic.

2. “Select good equipment. Use the best writing materials available. A good fountain pen is preferred [and] good, quality standard notebooks.” So, I will always take a detour down the aisle of school supplies in the grocery store in the name of good study.

3. “Form correct writing habits. Sit erect, with your feet flat on the floor….” As slouching on a couch during mid-afternoon hours encourages…well, haphazard study.

4. “Develop reading ability. Practice reading…material until you acquire the skill that permits you to give your listeners the meaning intended. To be an expert shorthand writer, you must first be a good reader. This ability is important.” I repeat: to be a good writer, be a devoted reader.

5. “Decide now to be an expert. Your future lies in your own hands. If you want it, you have to work it.

Sometimes you show up at class as the teacher, but you leave as the student.