Telling Other People's Stories

Cal Breed of Orbix Glass helping Shannon create an ornament.

I've been at my job at the newspaper for five months now, and while some things (e.g. council meetings) don't have me sighing with dreamy contentment, there are a few people who have.

Back in the olden days - meaning about 10 years ago - I worked as a summer reporter in The Villages, Fla. Yes, the huge retirement community that airs commercials during weekend golf tournaments. I covered no news. Just fluff.

Beautiful, airy fluff.

The AP Stylebook's Rule for Use of Ellipsis

This is what I've been learning since my last post ... three days before Christmas.

The ellipsis, according to the AP Stylebook, is treated as a separate word. Space. Dot dot dot. Space.

Sigh ...

Priorities... Can't Live Without 'Em

There’s nothing worse than having to figure out my priorities. Gag. But the beginning of a new semester demands it, because without having an official list drafted, I quickly begin to feel like I’m drowning.

Writing: The Highs & Lows & 'Dislike' Button

This past week has been a week of extreme highs and moderate lows. Most of you know a major blog site -- BlogHer.com -- featured several of my blogs. As of this writing more than 4,000 people have viewed (and hopefully read) my words. What a rush! Do I care that I'm not paid for this? Heck no! Just as I bask in every post y'all share on your Facebook pages and/or Twitter feeds -- not to mention your comments -- I've reveled in this small success. I'm not ashamed to admit I'm proud -- and as an extra perk, my dopamine levels have been off the charts!

(Book Review) The Great Gatsby

I'm a little uncertain how one even begins to review such a classic. So I've decided my approach: to speak to those of you who've never read it.  Because surely, surely, there are people like me that have always planned to read it but never gotten around to it.

Right Book. Right Time.

Obviously I love to read. Reading my blog every now and then lets you know I consume books like some people consume energy drinks. I've been reading since the second grade, and the only trouble I got into in elementary and middle school was for hiding "outside reading" behind my textbooks. Yes, that makes me a goody-goody, but only until high school. I assure you I got into my fair share of trouble then. Just ask my parents.

Lunching with Joshilyn Jackson & What She Didn't Teach Me

So yes, yes. I lunched with Joshilyn Jackson on Friday. [Brush my shoulder, toss my hair, look smug]

This I Believe about "This I Believe"

This I Believe is a New York Times bestseller featuring 80 essayists (60 from the NPR series and 20 from the 1950s series) sharing their most deeply held beliefs. Contributors include Isabel Allende, Gloria Steinem, John McCain, Bill Gates, Penn Jillette, and John Updike.

This I Believe awed me. Or more specifically, its contributors awed me. To communicate a deeply-held belief in 500 words or less is a daunting task. We all know how hard it is for me to write blogs that concise, and none of mine come close to conveying a profound belief.

A Swift Kick from Bossy Tina Fey

I finished Tina Fey's Bossypants today. To say Tina's funny "would be the biggest understatement since the captain of the Hindenburg said ‘I smell gas.’" (To be clear, that's a joke from the book, but not about herself.) The early conversation about puberty made me laugh out loud and almost drop the light bulb I was changing. And fall off the chair. And my husband to look at me peculiarly and ask, "What're you listening to?"

But two of my favorite quotes?

The Tree that Put Me at Ease

Back in February I had the good sense to attend a writers' conference offered on campus --- where I met many talented writers, bought too many of their books, and patiently began to nibble them in small, savory bites.


Except for Jennifer Horne's Bottle Tree. I devoured it that first weekend.


Which is interesting, because --- Horne being the only poet at the conference --- I expected to enjoy her the least. That sounds insulting, but up until that weekend most of my exposure had been to the big dogs --- Keats, Yeats, Frost, etc.  You know, the poetry that demands "work, work, work to understand me." I had the preconceived notion that Horne's would be much of the same.


But then she read her first poem, and I was spellbound.  I didn't know poetry could be like this! I remember thinking, I want to write like this someday. After hearing her speak, I wanted more. After finishing her book, I wanted more. Horne had given me the gift of poetic sustenance, when up until then I didn't know I was starving!  


Two months later I'm a regular in front of the single shelf at my local chain bookstore, picking up Alice Walker and Billy Collins. Thanks to Jennifer Horne I'm at ease with my pursuit of writing poetry, understanding that fancy words and complicated styles don't make a great poem. An open mind, a gift of words, and a sense of story-telling make a great poem.  At least it does in Bottle Tree.


With the author's permission, I've presented one of my favorites from the collection. Please visit Jennifer Horne's blog and/or click here to purchase a copy for yourself.  Trust me, you'll want more.


Monday Morning with Household Chores


Surprised into tears by an old song.
It's my mother, not a lover, I miss.
How she sang along happily. With abandon.
The words soothed her. Lifted her, too.
I stop in the middle of mopping the kitchen floor.
Nothing to do but sit down on the steps.
Let the tears have their way.


It's my solitude I weep for.
The never-again of it.
Changeable weather. A sweet old song.
Me aging with all these questions.
She not there to ask.


Isn't every motherless girl the same?
Still expecting her phone call.
Even after however-many years.
Mopping's regular rhythm.
Lemon oil on wooden chest.
Honor her with frangipani candles at Christmas.
Sing with abandon. Abandon. Abandon.




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Inspiration Comes in Raw Packages

There's nothing like finding inspiration in someone else. 
Thanks to friend Kyrsten from my creative poetry class, I've discovered Taylor Mali, a former-teacher-turned-slam-poet. I spent an hour watching youTube videos of him last night, spent another hour making my husband watch them, and after was so inspired I sat down and wrote something in under 30 minutes.

I love it when that happens.

So before you think, "Blah.  I'm not going to watch some guy recite poetry," I urge you to take a minute. Or three. Watch the clip below.

Listen.

If you like what you see (and I think you will), try these:

• On What Teachers Make
• The The Impotence of Proofreading
• Labeling Keys
• Defending American Interests

 But to tell the truth, I find his deeper stuff (listed below) to be breathtaking --- literally.  I found myself holding my breath. His willingness to bare his soul... I struggle with that in my writing.  I'm always aware of who I might hurt.  If I write about an ex-boyfriend, will I hurt my husband? The ex's family? If I write about my family, will it offend my grandmother? And so on and so on. My friend Mica tells me that I'm more honest than she ever could be, and perhaps that's true. (Read her guest blog, A "Clark Griswold" Holiday)

But I know it's not enough when I find myself censoring my pen.

Because when I read writing that's raw --- or hear it like Taylor does below --- that's what really packs the punch; they're the words that stick with me. Inspiration comes in raw packages.

• Depression, Too, is a Type of Fire
• Entire Act of Sorrow
• For the Life of Me

To sum up, it seems I recommend watching everything he's ever done on youTube.  I hope you find him as inspirational as I have.  And by all means, please share him (& this post) with your friends on Facebook & Twitter, too!


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Social Media Waiting to Inspire Us

The power of a name can draw a pretty big crowd, especially when it applies to social media.  Take James Franco, for example: He signed up for a Twitter account and within twenty-four hours had more than 700,000 followers (I know -- I was one of 'em).

In the age where celebrities are twitterin' away at any given moment, we're somewhat immune to the 'awe' we first felt when we had such a personal connection.  In fact, I've already severed most of my celebrity tweetin' connections (tired of the same ol' talk) and most Facebook pages seem to be the same as web sites -- translation: managed by someone else.

But there's still room for a little star power on the world wide web, and I've recently experienced two finds that sent my heart a'flutterin.'

A few weeks ago I discovered that one of my favorite authors Joshilyn Jackson (Gods in Alabama, Between, Georgia, The Girl Who Stopped Swimming) not only has her web site, but a blog!  As a wanna-be-published writer I find her stories about choosing the cover design (or lack of input) fascinating.  I'm amazed at her stories of normal life, because she truly seems to have a "My kids and I are sick with the flu"-kind of normal life.  When I hear her talk at a writer's conference next month (one I'm attending simply for that reason) I'll have stars in my eyes.

The second find came Friday night while reading the newest book of poems by Alice Walker.  In the back of the book I found the usual blurb about Walker and her life, etc. etc., but it also mentioned her redesigned web site.  So of course I pick up my Mac, type in the address, and have an oh-my-lord-alice-walker-has-a-blog exhilarated squeal, which made my husband look at me in all sorts of strange ways.

But it's Alice Walker.  Alice Walker!  The woman who wrote The Color Purple and who I studied in high school and college English classes.  A Pulitzer Prize winner who my daughter will study, and her children's children, as well.  This incredible woman -- already an icon -- has a blog that reveals a side of herself that we would never glimpse in her books, no matter how introspective.

If you're not impressed, I don't think we can be friends.

So I guess the moral to my story is this:  With all the crap that's beginning to infiltrate our social media bubble, there are always the oh-my-lord-alice-walker-has-a-blog discoveries waiting to inspire us.

p.s. If you've had one already, I'd love to hear about it!

A Student, Fulfilled

It seems I'm finally where I'm supposed to be.  With my college major, that is.

Since the beginning of my pursuit for higher education back in 2000, I have perused many a college major.  Although I'm not as scattered as Pauly Shore in Son In Law ("Majored in karate for two semesters...") I've filled out my fair share of 'Change of Major' forms.  What started out in Journalism quickly moved to Advertising, then to Education, followed by Psychology, then finally resting on English.  Hmmm.... I thought there were five so maybe I'm missing one somewhere.  Oh well.

But back to English.  It began as a means to obtain my degree in the quickest method possible -- let's face it, I love to read and to write, so I figured it'd be a cake walk.  But the beauty of it is -- that it is.  A cake walk, I mean.  But not in the way I expected.  I never imagined that I'd enjoy my classes as much as I do.  I don't merely go to make a grade, fulfill a requirement to graduate.  I go everyday because I want to learn! Imagine that!

That's something that's always bothered me before, that I didn't really enjoy learning.  As much as I enjoyed my communications classes (and still do, since it's still my minor), and even though I'm not entirely certain that I WON'T pursue a career in copy writing, I never felt like what I was learning really mattered.  I was learning a process, much like the way I was trained to steam milk in my Starbucks days. Nothing I would ponder over in while driving to class, or in the shower.  I would never open the AP Stylebook with as much zest as I do Henry James' The Spoils of Poynton.

As corny as it sounds, the things I'm learning now enrich my soul.

I'm moved by Percy Bysshe Shelley's Ode to the West Wind from the early 1800's, and in awe that I not only understand why he wrote it but that I feel the same way!

Scatter, as from unextinguished hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawakened Earth


The trumpet of a prophecy! 


These men and women were just like us.  They were funny.  They were embarrassed by their relatives.   They loved other men's wives.  They suffered through depression and addiction.  They questioned human rights. Some fought for their own.  They thought about love and sex.  A lot.   They were awestruck by the nature around them.  They worried about money.  Some were celebrated for their ideas, and others shunned and exiled.

They rejoiced when citizens overthrew a dictator.  They celebrated their own government.

They questioned their ancestry, themselves, their friends, their gods -- and tried to make sense of it all.

Just like us.

And so many struggled to do what mattered to them most, which was to write.  Just like me.  Which is why I'm where I'm supposed to be.  Among very good company.

Running in Repeats

I heart Kevin Smith.  Truly.  You may only recognize him as the "too fat to fly"-guy, or perhaps you know his movies and think he's repulsive.  But the man can write -- he produces some of the most amazing dialogue in Hollywood and his autobiographies are filled with random stories that are humorous yet meaningful. If you ever get the chance to pick up My Boring-Ass Life, it's worth it to read his chapter about Jason Mewes overcoming his heroin addiction.  Unbelievable story.  Unbelievable writing.

So of course I follow him on Twitter, which is sometimes confusing because, as an artist who is known to be very particular about his words, he does not find it necessary to limit himself to 140 characters.  There are some days when I wonder if he's trying to break his own record of "tweets it takes to get this story out."

But as I've stated, I heart Kevin Smith.  Long tweets and all.  As a writer I envy the way he takes the simple, everyday life and makes me (and millions of others) think, "Oh, yeah... I've felt that way."  And although it took him 11 tweets to tell the story below, it's one of the shorter writings I've loved.  As someone who watches Friends with my daughter almost daily, I've no doubt I'll experience this someday soon.

Tweeted earlier this week, I've simply copied and pasted his words together:

"I LOVE LUCY was a sitcom from the '50s that was running in repeats during my childhood.  There were merely 5 stations when I was a kid, so I was often forced to watch LUCY - a show my parents still found funny.  Of course they did:  they'd watched all the eps during their original airings, from 1951 to 1957.  But at our little house on Jackson Street in Highlands, NJ, the idea of watching a 20 year old sitcom - even if nothing else was on - always felt geriatric to me.  Even my Grandmother would watch LUCY reruns, usually at 10pm on channel 5.  LUCY couldn't be dodged of ducked in my pre-cable youth.  And whenever someone older than me tried to sell me on how awesome LUCY was, I'd cringe, forced to watch situations and characters for which I had no perspective and no sentimental attachment.  The other day, I was watching ROSEANNE with my kid.  After ten minutes, she observed "Nobody has a cell phone."  After that, she asked questions about lower-middle-class life - a subject she's as ignorant of as I am well-schooled.  So there I was, watching a 20 year old sitcom that I still adore with my kid, who had no context for the world or era that produced the best television series of the 90s.  After she politely watched the episode with me (or rather, for me) Harley thanked me for sharing my program, then excused herself to watch GLEE.  And 20 years from now, as she tries to desperately explain to an incredulous-but-patient child of her own just how timeless and relevant HER childhood television treasure is, a circle will be complete."

A Case of Me, Chloe-Style

My little sis has a blog! 

"My genes are going to be permanently altered from so much rain! I'm beginning to think that I will forever want to inhabit my bed, feel drab, and write blogs on the weather. What can I say? The only thing saving me is my boots...."




Read more of Chloe's musings at  

A Case of Me