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In the Moment with Sherman Alexie

Wednesday night was alive with excitement, energy, and nostalgia.

My husband stayed home with the kids, and I ventured out on my own. I met a friend for dinner — a delectable meal void of macaroni and cheese, complemented with a cloth napkin, and paid for by my sweet friend. I ordered a glass of Pinot Noir, made by a vineyard who’s name  I can’t remember, which came with an entry card for a contest the vineyard was sponsoring. I sipped my wine like I’d just come of age and filled out a form to win a new bike in December. I dotted my I’s with fervor. I felt lucky.

We skipped dessert for a more enticing event happening around the corner at the Boswell Book Company: Sherman Alexie, live and in person, speaking and reading.

The bookstore was packed, and the air electric. It was standing room only, so my friend and I weaved our way in and out of bodies to the back, where we found a niche near a bookshelf with a perfect view. I scanned the crowd: old, young, diverse. As I thought of the experience we were all about to embrace, cheers erupted and there he stood.

He spoke for an hour. He read poems from his new book, War Dances. Like in his writing, his words struck the air in an often humorous, raw, and poignant way.

He spoke with passion about the way technology is changing how we experience art. As we turn more and more towards digital and high-speed tools, the human aspect of art, whether it’s music or reading or writing, is filtered out little by little. Sherman Alexie described digitized books as sterile, robbing us of the anticipation found in a hand held object that draws us in and envelops our every sense: touch, sight, smell.

The smell of a bookstore, especially a used or antique bookstore, was a sensual image I could grasp well. I thought about the hidden stacks in the library of my alma mater, where I ventured one day in my early college years. I can’t remember the book I needed to borrow, but in my search I found a spiral staircase that took me down, down, down. The deeper I went, the older the books. It was a hidden treasure, a secret room of words, stories, and leather binding. Still today, I am drawn to antique books for the feel, the look, the character of the book itself. Years ago I bought an antique book written in French. I couldn’t read a word of it, but it didn’t matter. I bought it for the beauty of the cover and the endpaper.

On Sherman Alexie’s official website, the summary of his new book, War Dances, speaks well to the feel of the night as it settled into the recesses of my mind:

“…War Dances takes us to the heart of what it means to be human. The new beginnings, successes, mistakes, and regrets that make up our daily lives….”

I love the tactile experience of reading a good book. In that moment when I pick up the book, I am completely present. I am thinking only of the title, the author, the cover, until my hands open to the first page and my eyes begin to read. Then, I fall into the story.

Sherman Alexie made a very strong impression.

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flash fiction: Losing My Focus

It’s Wednesday. Are you ready for the word? I’m not., but I’m committed to giving it a whirl.

From Wordsmith.org, Today’s Word:
peremptory. adj. dictatorial. expressing command or urgency. not admitting any question or contradiction.

I admit, I went to a thesaurus in search of connections: dictatorial – bossy – overbearing – high and mighty.

***

I walked into the house carrying a bushel of fresh picked apples. A waft of Yankee Harvest candle overcame me, which was then overpowered by a stream of staccato jazz violin — Stephane Grappelli, her favorite. I don’t know any other violinists, but I know Grappelli well. He’s her “pick me up” music she plays when cleaning house or scrubbing dishes or ignoring her lingering doom.

She meandered down the hall, like a skeleton in jeans. The apples were heavy, and her appearance shocked me. I dropped the bushel onto the floor harder than I intended.

“Careful, Maggie! If they’re too heavy, ask for help.” Even in a state of decline, her peremptory voice commanded subservience.

“Sorry, Mom. It slipped.” I slipped. She hated it when I reacted too strongly to her thinning hair and gaunt face. When I visited, I forced myself to look her straight in the eyes, zero in on her amber irises, watch her pupils shrink and grow with the changing light through the window. Only when she turned towards the kitchen, and I followed, was I allowed to study the sharpness of her shoulder blades. My heart fell.

“I picked two bushels of Macs and Paula Reds, mixed. Those are good, right? How many apple crisps are we making today?”

“Paula’s are good, Macs will do. I need ten crisps. One for the Johnson widows down the street, three for the church bazaar, five for St. Vincent DePaul – soup kitchen’s open tomorrow. And, one for you, my sweet.” She looked over her glasses at me, straight into my anguished face. “Get that expression off your face, Maggie. Only smiles in this house today.”

I swallowed hard. “Yes, Mother. I’ll go get the other bushel.”

She hollered from the kitchen as I stepped through the front door, “And, don’t drop them this time, missy!”

Behind the open trunk of the car, I broke down. When she told me of the cancer six months ago, she declared it a minor disruption. She demanded I see it the same way. She refused to listen to my fears. This apple crisp bake-off is a tradition. I knew it was coming. But, I hadn’t prepared for the wrench on my heart.

I gave myself exactly one minute to fall apart, then I wiped my face with my sleeve, put on some lip gloss, and straightened my hair. I picked up the bushel and balanced it between the bumper and my legs. Then, I slammed the trunk.

She was standing in the front doorway.

“What’s taking you so long? We’re on a schedule here, and you know how long it takes to peel those apples.”

Her sharp tongue whipped me into a staunch laugh. “God, Mom. I’m coming! These apples are heavy.”

“So is your hand when you peel them.” She eyed me up as she held open the door and I slid past. “Let’s try not to take out half the flesh when you peel the skin away this year. Got it?”

She slapped me on the bottom and sent me marching into the kitchen.

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Bad Draft or Bad Writing Day?

The last time I sat down to work on my novel, the words read pale and lifeless. I’m only on chapter two. This can’t be a good sign.

I wrote a lot last week,on other pieces. My brain was too tired to rework any more stories. I decided I needed a break from writing, a chance to refuel. I dove into a book about writing instead: Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones.

I’ve read bits and pieces of her book before, but this time one passage struck me.

“If every time you sat down, you expected something great, writing would always be a great disappointment.”

My writing experience lies in short pieces: blog posts, articles under 1000 words, or short stories no more than five pages. In such a compact writing space, I easily devote time and energy to edit and re-edit a whole piece to the point of satisfaction, sometimes even pride.

Now I look at a novel and its end goal of 80,000 words or 100+ pages. Subconsciously, I expect myself to sit down and write a great second draft. When I couldn’t rework even one good chapter the other day, I did feel disappointed. And, discouraged.

Time is of the essence, I thought, this story is going to get old, and fast.

If I want to rush through a re-write just to get the story out, before it becomes a bore (before I lose my confidence), maybe the story should be shelved for a while. Perhaps even for good.

How do you know when the masterpiece you poured onto paper isn’t such a masterpiece after all? Sure, elements of the story show promise, but the story as a whole reads average, not great. And, how do you know the diffference between a weak premise and a bad writing day?

***

Natalie Goldberg, Writing Down the Bones (Boston, MA: Shambhala Publications, Inc, 1986), p. 11.