And this is why I proof everything I write a bazillion times...
Earlier this month (October 8, to be exact) this story hit the news wires: "HIV-positive black gay men to get the Bayard Rustin Project, a District campaign against AIDS."
Clearly a serious story, the lead read: "Last month, the Centers for Disease Control released new figures charting the HIV epidemic among black, gay men in D.C. The figures are grim: One in three black men who have sex with me is HIV-positive."
Unfortunately, it had to be followed by this all-too-straight-faced correction, which cracks. me. up:
Correction:
This blog post originally stated that one in three black men who have
sex with me is HIV positive. In fact, the statistic applies to black
men who have sex with men. Also, the photo caption incorrectly
attributed Bayard Rustin's photo to "Wikipedia Commons." The correct
title is "Wikimedia Commons."
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Monday, October 18, 2010
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Calling All Readers
I'm beginning work on my graduation lecture for VCFA, and could really use your help. Can anyone recommend a book in which an urban writer has written a rural, small-town character badly, or as a caricature? (I'm thinking the book equivalent of the Cohen Bros. movie, Fargo.)
I'll be lecturing about writing rural characters -- and would love to gather some examples of authors who've done it poorly, using:
* exaggeration
* generalizations
* belitting or contempt
* humor that laughs at, rather than with, the character
* overemphasizing rural dialogue
The character can have a fleeting role in the book, or can be a main character. Please let me know if you have any recommendations. I'll be eternally grateful! Thanks!
I'll be lecturing about writing rural characters -- and would love to gather some examples of authors who've done it poorly, using:
* exaggeration
* generalizations
* belitting or contempt
* humor that laughs at, rather than with, the character
* overemphasizing rural dialogue
The character can have a fleeting role in the book, or can be a main character. Please let me know if you have any recommendations. I'll be eternally grateful! Thanks!
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Hangin' at the Coffee Shop
With the boys at camp mornings this week, I've found a cozy little coffee shop. Unlike my regular digs at Dunn Bros. in Rochester, Bridget's Cafe in Zumbrota seems to cater to the farmer and retiree crowd. I'm digging the atmosphere here and find myself playing a bit of a spy, recording conversations in my head and committing characteristics to memory. (The joy and burden of the writer.)
Earlier, two gentlemen--both in jeans, T-shirts, and baseball caps--settled at the table next to me. Spanning a maybe 10-, 15-year age gap, they read the paper while eating their breakfast and broke only occasionally for conversation that fascinated me. An excerpt:
50-something man in red hat: So, the Twins.
40-something man in tightly belted jeans: Yep. Today.
[Sound of silverware against plates, coffee cups being set on Formica, newspaper rustling.]
50-something: So, you have a good visit with your dad?
[40-something takes a sip of coffee. Scoops a forkful of eggs into his mouth. Turns the page of the paper.]
40-something: Was okay.
50-something: Yep.
[Three men at another table get up to leave. One nods at my table neighbors. They nod back, before settling back into their coffee and newspapers. Minutes go by.]
40-something: 'ts gonna be a hot one.
50-something: You know it.
* * *
I have to say: I feel completely at home here; it's like being back in my hometown in northern Minnesota. And bonus: I'm starting work on my graduation lecture this month. My topic: Writing Rural Characters. Turns out there's delicious material all around me.
Earlier, two gentlemen--both in jeans, T-shirts, and baseball caps--settled at the table next to me. Spanning a maybe 10-, 15-year age gap, they read the paper while eating their breakfast and broke only occasionally for conversation that fascinated me. An excerpt:
50-something man in red hat: So, the Twins.
40-something man in tightly belted jeans: Yep. Today.
[Sound of silverware against plates, coffee cups being set on Formica, newspaper rustling.]
50-something: So, you have a good visit with your dad?
[40-something takes a sip of coffee. Scoops a forkful of eggs into his mouth. Turns the page of the paper.]
40-something: Was okay.
50-something: Yep.
[Three men at another table get up to leave. One nods at my table neighbors. They nod back, before settling back into their coffee and newspapers. Minutes go by.]
40-something: 'ts gonna be a hot one.
50-something: You know it.
* * *
I have to say: I feel completely at home here; it's like being back in my hometown in northern Minnesota. And bonus: I'm starting work on my graduation lecture this month. My topic: Writing Rural Characters. Turns out there's delicious material all around me.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Workshop Inspiration
At my small-group writer's workshop tonight, I assigned this writing exercise: "Write about what your mother's or grandmother's hands have done."
(The assignment, incidentally, was inspired by my aunt, who, gathered around her mother's deathbed with her siblings, said, "Imagine what those hands have done." It's a fantastic thought, isn't it?)
Usually, while my students are writing, I review the day's workshop pieces and prepare for the second half of class. Today, however, I scrawled out my own brief response to the assignment. It reads:
My grandmother's soft, vein-lined hands did not...
latch necklaces
apply rouge to wrinkled cheeks
play piano
write high school assignments
dip their fingers in the Rhine, the Danube or the Thames
hold the hand of her evil stepmother
soak for a manicure
They did...
Pour molasses
Flatten lefse
Deal cards
Wash plastic straws
Fold in prayer
Open the cookie jar
Knit socks and mittens and a thick pair of taupe legwarmers I refused to wear
Form popcorn balls for 30 Halloweens
Spank sons
Throw away the half-full bottles of whiskey they found in a can of nails in the garage
Hold six newborn babies to her chest
Weave their fingers in mine
(The assignment, incidentally, was inspired by my aunt, who, gathered around her mother's deathbed with her siblings, said, "Imagine what those hands have done." It's a fantastic thought, isn't it?)
Usually, while my students are writing, I review the day's workshop pieces and prepare for the second half of class. Today, however, I scrawled out my own brief response to the assignment. It reads:
My grandmother's soft, vein-lined hands did not...
latch necklaces
apply rouge to wrinkled cheeks
play piano
write high school assignments
dip their fingers in the Rhine, the Danube or the Thames
hold the hand of her evil stepmother
soak for a manicure
They did...
Pour molasses
Flatten lefse
Deal cards
Wash plastic straws
Fold in prayer
Open the cookie jar
Knit socks and mittens and a thick pair of taupe legwarmers I refused to wear
Form popcorn balls for 30 Halloweens
Spank sons
Throw away the half-full bottles of whiskey they found in a can of nails in the garage
Hold six newborn babies to her chest
Weave their fingers in mine
Monday, May 10, 2010
Homework
This summer, I'll celebrate 10 years as a freelance writer. And let me tell you, I know how lucky I am to work from home. My flexible schedule means I get to be the one who sends my kiddos off to school in the morning and greets them when they come home in the afternoon. It means I can chaperone field trips, meet friends for lunch, run errands before the 5 o'clock rush, and take off for a long weekend without submitting PTO forms. Frankly, the savings on shoes and dress clothes alone is enough to throw a party.
Funny thing, though: The benefits are also the detriments. My world is nothing if not a blurring of the lines. Without the 8-to-5, work wiggles its way in to evenings and weekends--while family and community obligations like to set up shop right there in the middle of the day. And those long weekends? You bet I take them -- but I also take my laptop right along with me.
Take today's to-do list: Chaperone the 2nd-grade field trip to the Olmsted County History Center. Write the end-of-program report for an arts grant. Answer reader mail from last week's column. Stress out over my sons' class sizes, and daydream about starting my own private school. Clean the bathroom, which was recently hit by Hurricane Christian and Bergen (and, yes, Hurricane Jen). Do the dishes. Wonder if it's going to rain like they say it will before hauling out the hose for the potatoes I finally planted yesterday. Attend a school volunteer dessert, which I really have no time to squeeze in -- except that it's DESSERT. Run to OfficeMax when I realize I'm out of the paper AND the ink I need in order to -- oh yeah -- work.
That last line best describes how my days have felt lately: "Oh yeah -- work." It's always the easiest thing to put off, isn't it?
Today, work entails tweaking an essay I wrote earlier in the semester. I have to send it to VCFA today in order to make my next workshop deadline. (A "workshop" is a session in which a writer sits in a room with a dozen other writers, listening to them talk about the pros and cons of his/her story or essay. Did I mention that the writer -- in this case, me -- isn't allowed to speak?)
I'm sending a piece titled, "After". The essay, which currently stands at 22 pages (but must miraculously top out at 20 by 4 p.m.!), intertwines two unrelated stories -- one of which explores how my grandmother is coping with my grandfather's death. I'll include a small excerpt at the end of this post.
Which, it turns out, is where we are now. (As much as I've stalled, it turns out that essay isn't going to trim itself into a tidy 20 pages....)
Wishing you the peace -- or the controlled chaos -- you long for! I've found that either option is fantastic, really, in its own way.
An excerpt from AFTER
My grandma and I take the boys to the zoo. We're checking out the blowfish when my grandma calls out in pain and grabs her arm.
“What happened?” I ask as my hand flies to my neck where I can feel my heart beating too fast. “Are you okay?” I'm the last person anyone wants nearby in an emergency. I panic.
“I'm fine,” she says. “Just a pain.”
By the time we get to the shark tank, it's happened again. Twice.
“Seriously, Grandma,” I say. “Do we need to leave?”
She takes a step closer to me. “If anything happens, my keys are right here.” She pulls them out of her shorts pocket and jingles them in front of my face. “See? Here.”
She returns the keys to her pocket and says, “I'm going to go find a water fountain and take an Ascriptin.” As she shuffles away, I hear her mumble, “I've learned just not to worry too much. If it's my time, it's my time.”
Two hours later, after feeding the giraffes, protecting our bags from the goats at the petting zoo, and taking a 40-second, $18 ride on the water taxi with the boys, we head for home. My grandma—who did not have a heart attack and die in the aquarium—sits low beside me, barely seeing over the steering wheel of her Park Avenue. We're just a few blocks from the house when she makes an unexpected turn. She likes to take odd routes sometimes just to shake things up, so I don't say anything. Thirty seconds later, she asks, “Where am I?”
“You just turned off Sun City Boulevard,” I say. “You're two blocks from home.”
“Oh!”' she says, covering her mouth. “I did that last time, too.” She slows down to pull into the next street.
“No, Grandma—you can't turn here,” I tell her. “This is a cul-de-sac, a dead-end.”
“I know where I am,” she says, annoyed. “I like to go this way.”
Funny thing, though: The benefits are also the detriments. My world is nothing if not a blurring of the lines. Without the 8-to-5, work wiggles its way in to evenings and weekends--while family and community obligations like to set up shop right there in the middle of the day. And those long weekends? You bet I take them -- but I also take my laptop right along with me.
Take today's to-do list: Chaperone the 2nd-grade field trip to the Olmsted County History Center. Write the end-of-program report for an arts grant. Answer reader mail from last week's column. Stress out over my sons' class sizes, and daydream about starting my own private school. Clean the bathroom, which was recently hit by Hurricane Christian and Bergen (and, yes, Hurricane Jen). Do the dishes. Wonder if it's going to rain like they say it will before hauling out the hose for the potatoes I finally planted yesterday. Attend a school volunteer dessert, which I really have no time to squeeze in -- except that it's DESSERT. Run to OfficeMax when I realize I'm out of the paper AND the ink I need in order to -- oh yeah -- work.
That last line best describes how my days have felt lately: "Oh yeah -- work." It's always the easiest thing to put off, isn't it?
Today, work entails tweaking an essay I wrote earlier in the semester. I have to send it to VCFA today in order to make my next workshop deadline. (A "workshop" is a session in which a writer sits in a room with a dozen other writers, listening to them talk about the pros and cons of his/her story or essay. Did I mention that the writer -- in this case, me -- isn't allowed to speak?)
I'm sending a piece titled, "After". The essay, which currently stands at 22 pages (but must miraculously top out at 20 by 4 p.m.!), intertwines two unrelated stories -- one of which explores how my grandmother is coping with my grandfather's death. I'll include a small excerpt at the end of this post.
Which, it turns out, is where we are now. (As much as I've stalled, it turns out that essay isn't going to trim itself into a tidy 20 pages....)
Wishing you the peace -- or the controlled chaos -- you long for! I've found that either option is fantastic, really, in its own way.
An excerpt from AFTER
My grandma and I take the boys to the zoo. We're checking out the blowfish when my grandma calls out in pain and grabs her arm.
“What happened?” I ask as my hand flies to my neck where I can feel my heart beating too fast. “Are you okay?” I'm the last person anyone wants nearby in an emergency. I panic.
“I'm fine,” she says. “Just a pain.”
By the time we get to the shark tank, it's happened again. Twice.
“Seriously, Grandma,” I say. “Do we need to leave?”
She takes a step closer to me. “If anything happens, my keys are right here.” She pulls them out of her shorts pocket and jingles them in front of my face. “See? Here.”
She returns the keys to her pocket and says, “I'm going to go find a water fountain and take an Ascriptin.” As she shuffles away, I hear her mumble, “I've learned just not to worry too much. If it's my time, it's my time.”
Two hours later, after feeding the giraffes, protecting our bags from the goats at the petting zoo, and taking a 40-second, $18 ride on the water taxi with the boys, we head for home. My grandma—who did not have a heart attack and die in the aquarium—sits low beside me, barely seeing over the steering wheel of her Park Avenue. We're just a few blocks from the house when she makes an unexpected turn. She likes to take odd routes sometimes just to shake things up, so I don't say anything. Thirty seconds later, she asks, “Where am I?”
“You just turned off Sun City Boulevard,” I say. “You're two blocks from home.”
“Oh!”' she says, covering her mouth. “I did that last time, too.” She slows down to pull into the next street.
“No, Grandma—you can't turn here,” I tell her. “This is a cul-de-sac, a dead-end.”
“I know where I am,” she says, annoyed. “I like to go this way.”
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Scenes from my Mother
Last week, I sent two essays to my MFA advisor, Laurie Alberts. The first essay in packet I liked a great deal. It's about the crash-and-burn of one relationship (the guy came home from the bar with another girl on our anniversary, people) and the bouncing back with my "rebound guy." Whom I married.
The second essay, about a conversation I had with an old teacher, felt... incomplete. I couldn't pin down what was missing--but I knew I hadn't nailed it. There's something to be said about writer's intuition because when I got my packet back this weekend, Laurie agreed with me. Only she recognized the problem. (That's why she's the teacher.)
"This story is much more about your mother than about this nameless guy in the restaurant," she wrote. "You've given us your mother mostly in summarized reports. You need to write an essay that is much more focused on that relationship ... Your mother deserves real scenes, not reports."
Okay, sure. I would've rather received a letter from Laurie reading, "What do you mean you're not sure about this essay? It's brilliant!" But she was right. My mother deserves real scenes. So in honor of the ineffable Penny Haugen, here are two:
We're at Godfather's Pizza, and, frankly, I think we're embarrassing my dad. Amy's roughly five seconds from hyperventilating. Angie can't see through her tears. I'm sitting on the floor next to my chair, shrieking. My mom's throwing her hands in a "I'm laughing too hard to talk" gesture.
Who knows what was so funny? That's not part of the memory. Had I fallen off my chair? Did one of us snort during a giggle? Did we overhear something of great hilarity from a neighboring table? I mean, anything could've spurred this outpouring.
When we finally calm, our stomachs aching, our throats hoarse, my mom wipes her eyes, shakes her head and says, "Oh, that was funny."
Which, naturally, gets us started again.
My grandma's doing the dishes at the kitchen sink, the clink-clink-clink of Corelle against cutlery the soundtrack of this memory. My mom's sitting on the blue flowered couch under the living room window. I'm sinking into her, my face in my hands, my breath a jagged mess of tears. "But why doesn't he want me?" I cry. "How can he do this?"
"I don't know," my mom tells me, near tears herself as she smooths my hair with the hand that isn't wrapped around my shoulders. "You are a beautiful person and I love you."
"But why doesn't he?" I say, my words a squeak.
"I don't know," she answers. "Maybe because he's not very smart."
Here's the thing. My mother has never once told me that she'd always be there for me. That she's only a phone call away. That "family is forever."
But she's never had to. Because I've always known. She has lived every minute of her parenting life by these truths, ensuring that her three daughters know, unequivocally, that she has our backs no matter what.
My God. My greatest hope in this world is that my sons never question these same truths about me. Happy Mother's Day, Mama-cita. I love you.
The second essay, about a conversation I had with an old teacher, felt... incomplete. I couldn't pin down what was missing--but I knew I hadn't nailed it. There's something to be said about writer's intuition because when I got my packet back this weekend, Laurie agreed with me. Only she recognized the problem. (That's why she's the teacher.)
"This story is much more about your mother than about this nameless guy in the restaurant," she wrote. "You've given us your mother mostly in summarized reports. You need to write an essay that is much more focused on that relationship ... Your mother deserves real scenes, not reports."
Okay, sure. I would've rather received a letter from Laurie reading, "What do you mean you're not sure about this essay? It's brilliant!" But she was right. My mother deserves real scenes. So in honor of the ineffable Penny Haugen, here are two:
We're at Godfather's Pizza, and, frankly, I think we're embarrassing my dad. Amy's roughly five seconds from hyperventilating. Angie can't see through her tears. I'm sitting on the floor next to my chair, shrieking. My mom's throwing her hands in a "I'm laughing too hard to talk" gesture.
Who knows what was so funny? That's not part of the memory. Had I fallen off my chair? Did one of us snort during a giggle? Did we overhear something of great hilarity from a neighboring table? I mean, anything could've spurred this outpouring.
When we finally calm, our stomachs aching, our throats hoarse, my mom wipes her eyes, shakes her head and says, "Oh, that was funny."
Which, naturally, gets us started again.
My grandma's doing the dishes at the kitchen sink, the clink-clink-clink of Corelle against cutlery the soundtrack of this memory. My mom's sitting on the blue flowered couch under the living room window. I'm sinking into her, my face in my hands, my breath a jagged mess of tears. "But why doesn't he want me?" I cry. "How can he do this?"
"I don't know," my mom tells me, near tears herself as she smooths my hair with the hand that isn't wrapped around my shoulders. "You are a beautiful person and I love you."
"But why doesn't he?" I say, my words a squeak.
"I don't know," she answers. "Maybe because he's not very smart."
Here's the thing. My mother has never once told me that she'd always be there for me. That she's only a phone call away. That "family is forever."
But she's never had to. Because I've always known. She has lived every minute of her parenting life by these truths, ensuring that her three daughters know, unequivocally, that she has our backs no matter what.
My God. My greatest hope in this world is that my sons never question these same truths about me. Happy Mother's Day, Mama-cita. I love you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)