Maryism: a strange and unusual happenstance, or a normal life event strangely told?

We all have our quirks and idiosyncrasies.  They are part of us, and we often don't even realize that a certain behavior or mannerism is part of us.  But others notice.  And with us or without us but in the company of mutual friends (or enemies, I suppose) these idiosyncrasies are pulled up enjoyed anew.  Imagine for instance former students at a class reunion endearingly imitating the voice and mannerisms of some childhood teacher. 

Some people have a knack for noticing and quantifying the mannerisms of others.  And they can be quite entertaining when their mimicking abilities are showcased.  Others of us remain the brunt of the imitations and so must learn to laugh along.

I've written before about how my friend, Lisa, and others of my friends from my young adult years think I'm prone to having very strange things happen to me.  I argue that I simply re-tell and appreciate normal things in a funny manner so that life is more laughable.  And probably it's some combination of the two.

Now combine the above thoughts to get to the point of this post.  None of us really notice our own idiosyncrasies as much as others do.  And my friends find certain of my life stories as being typically "Mary" stories.


Last time I wrote, I posted a photo and a story about how I didn't know the woman in the photo was me.  To me, it was just kind of a funny story.  But to my friends, it was apparently one of those Mary-isms. 

My friend Kristi wrote on my facebook,

I think the not-so-old not-so-gray Mar IS what she used to be!

"Hmmm," thought I, "I suppose she means that I am so dingy.  But I could take it to mean I have always looked old."

That she was likely referring to my dinginess was verified when I heard from my friend, Lisa, via e-mail.   

Well, well, well. . . dear Mary.  People really don't change do they. Oh seriously, I laughed so hard at your picture confusion.  "That older lady."  Awesome."

And then she proceed to compare this story to a couple of my other oft-recalled Mary-isms

That story is like a combination of the "freaking out at whose strange hand was in your bed. . . oh, . .that's mine." story and the "who's attacking me in the middle of this street. ..oh that's my purse." story. "

When I posted the above quote for Kristi, since I knew it would make her laugh, she replied

"Please, don't EVER change. We love you so much just the way you are.

After which Joe recalled another of my crazy stories,  

Don't forget being attacked by a piece of hamburger. I thought she was going to crash the car.

And I laughed too at this interchange.  More for the fact that my friends think of such things as Mary-isms. 

And it reminded me of a story from my young adult years that I don't think I've ever written about. 

The first year Joe and I lived in Mankato, we met some friends from our Madison days for a winter retreat that the campus ministry in Madison was sponsoring.  Since not everyone knew each other at this occasion, the planners started the event with a mixer.  (When I told Elsie this story a year or so ago, she was a bit confused and informed me that people don't do mixers anymore.  She laughed more at my use of such a word than she did at my story.  So for those of you who don't know what a mixer is, it's a little game or activity designed so that unacquainted people at a social function to visit and get to know each other a little bit.  

The mixer at the retreat was some sort of match the person with their story activity.  We all had to write something about ourselves that nobody else was likely to know.  These stories or factoids were then mixed up and distributed, one story to each attendee.  The challenge for each of us was, by visiting with the individuals in the assembly, to match the story we had been given with the person who wrote it.

OK, my first difficulty was to find a story that neither my handful of best friends who were at the retreat, nor my husband of three years, would know.  I mean, really, these people knew EVERYTHING about me. 

So I dug.  I stretched my imagination way back in my history.  And I drew out and shook off a little phobia of my childhood.  I knew for a fact that I'd never told any of my friends about this, because it was so strange.  And kind of embarrassing.  And trivial.

I didn't ever clip my little toe nails.  I was always afraid that there was so little holding them on that I'd rip one off it I tried to clip it.  I don't know what ever happened to these pinky toenails.  Whether they simply wore off.  Or eventually tore off.  Or what.  But I went years without clipping my "pinky" toenails.

And that's what I wrote.  Almost in the same words as I wrote above. 

I was glad to have my life factoid chosen and written.  I was probably the last one done.  But after the stories were mixed up and handed out, I eagerly began to mix and mingle in the crowd to find the person whose story I had been assigned. 

Suddenly, from across the room, I hear this cackle of amusement.  One of those bursts of laughter that just explode out of a person.  Someone had approached one of my girlfriends with my "Mary story", and that girlfriend  KNEW!  INSTANTLY!  She knew it was me. 

And so it went.  Each of my girlfriends would read this story that this other attendee was passing around and crack up at the silliness of it, and the typical Mary-ness of it.  Pretty soon this dumb story of mine had kind of taken over the event.
But again, the funniest part of it was that they could tell simply from my retelling.  "Who else would ramble on like that, Mary, telling us all about how you don't know what happened to those toe nails?  You couldn't simply say, 'When I was young I was scared to clip my pinky toe nails.'  Then we wouldn't have known who wrote it.  But you!  You had to make a big story of it.  You can't even tell a story without being Mary."
 
But as I think about it, this particular incident gives more credence to my assertion that my retelling is what makes otherwise mundane life stories  into Mary-isms, more than that my life consists of one strange and unusual occurrence after another. 

Right?

That's my story and I'm sticking with it.

I love you, my girlfriends and my husband.  You know who you are.  Thanks for teaching me and reteaching me how to laugh.

Living Word Pictures and Rough Language

I was feeling distracted and agitated this morning, pacing like a caged lion and unable to focus on anything productive.  I started a new scarf and got bored with it; played spider solitaire and dinked on facebook and got bored with them, too; took two naps; and ate junk (candy and crackers and anything easy to pick up).  I stood in the kitchen frenetically opening cupboards and the fridge.  Repetitively.  As if somehow, some new and improved sort of junk food might be waiting if I just keep checking.

Pacing, pacing.  Distracted and agitated. 

Finally I grabbed an apple and settled in reading On The Shores of Silver Lake.  

Ah, peace. 

I think this might be my favorite of all the Little House Books.  As in the other books, I love the descriptions and Laura's use of simile and metaphor.  But this one is a little more vivid, because at this time in her life, she must start seeing for Mary, who had been blinded by scarlet fever.  I love the contrast between Ma and Mary, and their pragmatic approach to life; and Laura and Pa's pining for adventure.  I so resonate with Laura and Pa.  I think that's why God gave me ten children.  What could be more adventuresome than that?

I'm going to share some of my favorite passages.

I love the following excerpt from the chapter just after they get to the railroad camp on the shores of the lake.  Laura had just come in from getting water, all a-fluster because of the excitement of seeing all the teams and men coming in from the work sight, chanting and singing their coming home songs.  Ma, in her gentle way, with just a look in her eye and a very slight nod, exhorted Pa to make it clear that the girls were to stay far away from the men and the camp.

     "There's all kinds of rough men working on the grade and using rough language, and the less you see and hear of them, the better."....
     "Yes, Pa," Laura promised, and Carrie almost whispered, "Yes, Pa."  Carrie's eyes were large and frightened.  She did not want to hear rough language, whatever rough language might be.  Laura would have liked to hear some, just once, but of course she must obey Pa.

Ah, yes, this perfectly summarizes the dance with danger in which we are so often inclined to participate.

I love how Laura shows the difference between her outlook and Mary's.  It gives a person pause, really, to stop and think about the different ways of seeing.  Metaphor or dishonesty?  Imagery or exaggeration?  These two excerpts capture that difficulty.

     Beyond the river the grassy land was a low curve behind curve and the road looked like a short hook.
     "The road pushes against the grassy land and breaks off short.  And that's the end of it,"  said Laura.
     "It can't be," Mary objected.  "The road goes all the way to Silver Lake."
     "I know it does," Laura answered.
     "Well, then I don't think you ought to say things like that, " Mary told her gently.  "We should always be careful to say exactly what we mean."
     "I was saying what I meant," Laura protested.  But she could not explain.  There were so many ways of seeing things and so many ways of saying them.

And it happens again, a few paragraphs later, after Big Jerry deterred a would-be assailant on the wide and lonely prairie.

     "Hullo, Ingalls!"  Big Jerry answered.  The other man gave them all a snarling look and went galloping on ahead, but Big Jerry rode along by the wagon.
     He looked like an Indian.  He was tall and big but not one bit fat, and his thin face was brown.  His shirt was flaming red.  His straight black hair swung against his flat high-boned cheek as he rode, for he wore no hat.  And his snow-white horse wore no saddle nor bridle.  The horse was free, he could go where he wanted to go, and he wanted to go with Big Jerry wherever big Jerry wanted to ride.  The horse and the man moved together as if they were one animal.
     They were beside the wagon only a moment.  Then away they went into the smoothest, prettiest run, down into a little hollow and up and away, straight into the blazing round sun on the far edge of the west.  The flaming red shirt and the white horse vanished into the blazing golden light.
     Laura let out her breath.  "Oh, Mary!  The snow-white horse and the tall, brown man, with such a black head and a bright red shirt!  The brown prairie all around--and they rode right into the sun as it was going down.  They'll go on in the sun around the world."
     Mary thought a moment.  Then she said, "Laura, you know he couldn't ride into the sun.  He's just riding on the ground like anybody.
     But Laura did not feel like she had told a lie.  What she said was true too.  Somehow that moment when the beautiful, free pony and the wild man rode into the sun would last forever.

Two other favorite sections come later in the narrative, but you'll have to read the book yourself for those.  They are lengthier passages.  If I could find an online text of it, I could cut and paste, but alas, I cannot.  But the reason they are also among my favorites is because of the attention to detail.  Laura is so gifted at giving a verbal description and through it, allowing readers to see what she was seeing, and even hear and smell and feel the various aspects of the scene.  She even gets the sense of excitement to come through almost visibly.

The first scene is when Pa takes Laura to the work site, where the men are building the railroad grade.  She describes so vividly how Pa explained to her all the machinations of the various workers, how each team worked together like clockwork, to be just where it needed to be at the right moment, cutting, loading, dumping.  She encapsulates in her descriptions not only a concrete description of how the work progressed, but also the excitement of that era of progress.

A second favorite part is one of which my friend Erica reminded me.  It's later in the book, after the railroad town had closed down for the winter.  The company wanted someone to stay in the fully stocked surveyor's house, to take care of it over the winter.  They asked Pa if he and his family would be willing to do this.  As the family is preparing to move in, Laura asked permission to run on ahead.  The entire chapter consists of Laura's detailed description of her excited exploration of all the wonderful food stuffs that have been put up for the winter.  The reader can almost taste and smell them.  The colors are so vivid.  Readers can reach out and touch for themselves the various shapes and sizes of receptacles.  Open that barrel and peak in.  It's an altogether wonderful chapter.

So are you ready for some winter reading?  Crack open the Little House books.  If you've read them before, isn't it time to do it again?  If you've never read them, pick one up and give it a try.  They are excellent for family read aloud time, or for individual reading.  You say you don't have time for the entire series?  Just pick one.  Any one.  Every one of them is an excellent self-contained adventure.

Just do it.

Strange thoughts about Life and Grey's Anatomy

I started watching Grey's Anatomy on hulu awhile back, but hulu only offered the first season.  Now I have netflix, so I can watch the rest of it.  And I have been.  Not tons.  But a few episodes every now and then. 

It's OK.  Not great, but OK. 

So why do I waste my time on something that's merely OK?  Three things:  Scenery.  Art.  Psychology of Human Nature.

Having grown up in the Puget Sound area, I like seeing the Space Needle and other Seattle scenes.  It makes me all mushy inside when those panoramas flow past the screen.

I also like the artistic angle of how the show is put together.  There are facets of the production that appeal to my emotions like good art does.  It hits me deep down inside.  Like the music.  I'm not a music person.  I mean, I can't name all different kinds of musical genres and bands and instruments.  But I almost always notice the music in this show.  I like how the producers combine the music and the weather and the moods of the characters. 

And I like the glimpse into hidden parts of human nature.  The portrayal of humanity.  How do the patients deal with their crises?  How do they deal with their families during crises?  How do the doctors deal with the patients?  How do they deal with each other?  And in what ways do the issues the patients deal with help the doctors, at a basic human level, to be better people? 

And yes, I know it's not a Christian show.  I realize that the solutions and answers to which all these issues lead are not foundationally the same as the solutions and answers to which I'd come myself, or toward which I'd advise a friend. 

The writers do, however, seem to capture little nuggets of interpersonal truth at some level.  They get it.  They see how we broken human beings interact.  How we feel and cope.  How we use and manipulate.  How we analyze and muddle. 

It's kind of strange to me that through this artistic medium we call television, the writers and producers of this show capture life truths and reflect them back to viewers.  They give us an opportunity, impetus, to think about our own lives and interactions.  To examine our own interpersonal mechanisms to see how we measure up.

Last night's episode was called Enough is Enough.  It's in Season Two somewhere toward the beginning.  There was a character, a patient, who had ingested doll heads.  Ten Judy Doll heads.  Judy Dolls are apparently similar to Barbie dolls.  Ten.  He swallowed the heads whole.  Very strange. 

I did a little search to see what Judy Dolls were.  But in the process of trying to find that out, I noticed that most of the google search hits about Judy Dolls have to do with this particular episode of Grey's Anatomy. 

So see, I'm not the only one to whom this show does something.  A cursory glance through the search hits showed me that others viewers write about the characters and their various psychoses.  People think about the episodes and turn them over in their brains.  If a person is so inclined, he or she might put to paper the thoughts and feelings elicited through such analysis.  Viewers emotionally ingest the episodes, the various issues and hurdles the characters face.  They apply such to their own lives and come to some sort of resolution.  And then they spit these thoughts and lessons back out in written analysis.  It's in interesting cultural phenomenon, is it not?

I happened upon the following blog post last night.  I like it.  I like the Christian solution to which this writer alludes.  She doesn't phrase things exactly as I would.  But I understand her use of some cultural thing, a television character with emotional trauma, as a metaphor for life. 

I get it.

And so I'm passing it on.  Nothing big or earth shattering.  I just like it.

Why do we eat Judy Dolls? on If Words Were Medicine blog.

Jack London's Way with Words

Please note that I only had one commenter brave enough or interested enough to try to guess the source of the literary excerpt I posted yesterday. Congratulations to Amy who correctly guessed that the author was Jack London. The work from which the quote is taken is White Fang.

You read yesterday's excerpt as a whole. Today I am highlighting various elements of the writing that give it depth and feeling. Jack London is an expert at drawing the reading into his stories in a very emotive fashion. Whether it is the Arctic wilderness as in this example from White Fang, or the raging seas upon which a reader sails in The Sea Wolf, London's readers feel the very circumstances that he paints with his words. When I read this snippet, I am in the very Arctic wilderness, even if it's only in my mind. London's talent in this aspect of writing stands apart from most, even among the many writers considered great.

Dark spruce forest frowned on either side the frozen waterway. The trees had been stripped by a recent wind of their white covering of frost, and they seemed to lean towards each other, black and ominous, in the fading light. A vast silence reigned over the land. The land itself was a desolation, lifeless, without movement, so lone and cold that the spirit of it was not even that of sadness. There was a hint in it of laughter, but of a laughter more terrible than any sadness - a laughter that was mirthless as the smile of the sphinx, a laughter cold as the frost and partaking of the grimness of infallibility. It was the masterful and incommunicable wisdom of eternity laughing at the futility of life and the effort of life. It was the Wild, the savage, frozen-hearted Northland Wild. ...

...They travelled on without speech, saving their breath for the work of their bodies. On every side was the silence, pressing upon them with a tangible presence. It affected their minds as the many atmospheres of deep water affect the body of the diver. It crushed them with the weight of unending vastness and unalterable decree. It crushed them into the remotest recesses of their own minds, pressing out of them, like juices from the grape, all the false ardours and exaltations and undue self-values of the human soul, until they perceived themselves finite and small, specks and motes, moving with weak cunning and little wisdom amidst the play and inter-play of the great blind elements and forces.

Because I hope to one day write stories I often examine the works of those authors I admire. In Jack London's writing, I very often find myself in awe of that power I described above, of taking a reader into a setting. So I examine such writing for specifics in vocabulary and use of literary devices that lend the writing such sway.

In this excerpt, for instance, I noticed the verbs that were particularly interesting. They lend depth and character to the narrative. The forest frowned; silence reigned and crushed.

The unusual nouns, too, I marked. Waterway, instead of river; desolation, recesses, ardours, exaltations, specks, motes.

Colorful adjectives. dark, frozen, white, fading, vast, lifeless, lone, cold,terrible, mirthless, masterful, incommunicable, savage, frozen-hearted. Doesn't that list make you shiver with cold, and infinite and oppressive loneliness?

What about emotive use of prepositional phrases combined with those richly flavored nouns? Wisdom of eternity, futility of life, effort of life; weight of unending vastness and unalterable decree. Then that last sentence and it's run of powerful prepositional phrases: moving with weak cunning and little wisdom amidst the play and interplay of the great blind elements and forces.

Notice London use of simile. Mirthless as the smile of the sphinx; cold as the frost; affected their minds as deep water affects a diver's body; pressing like juices from the grape.

Pairs of words: black and ominous; lone and cold; ardours and exaltations; finite and small; specks and motes.

I periodically practice this art, for fun and to develop my skill, but I know I will never be the master that London was.

I have blogged about some of my favorite books and authors, and I've included many excerpts highlighting one or another or several skills I enjoy. If this subject interests you, you can find more such analysis within my books or writing index tabs. One of my very favorite snippets is featured in one of my first blog posts way back in 2007. Wow, time flies, doesn't it?

Words and Feelings, in Writ and Melody

After the Grammys the other week, all the news was of singer and songwriter, Adele.  Adele had vocal chord hemorrhage last fall, had laser surgery for her condition in November, and gave her comeback performance the night of the Grammys singing "Rolling in the Deep."  Not only that, Adele won awards in all of the six categories for which her work was nominated.



Wow!  What a voice.   I've heard a number of her songs on my Jar of Hearts station on Pandora, and am always captivated.

After the Grammys, during all the Adele publicity, my friend, Tom R. posted  on facebook a Wall Street Journal article called "Anatomy of a Tear-Jerker."   The author of the article attempted to explain, in a scientific way, why some songs are more likely than others to pull at our heartstrings.

I was reminded of this this morning on my way home from my morning exercise excursion at a neighbor's house.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.   I had to exercise alone today, because of a transportation mix-up getting the kids to school this morning.  I was approaching Lana's from the west just as Connie's vehicle was leaving, pulling out of her driveway to the east.  The other ladies were done and I was just arriving, so I knew I would not have any company this morning.

As I was spending time on the treadmill, I began to be plagued by the boredom that generally sets in for me during solitary indoor exercise.  "Time to use that imagination, Mary.  Find something with which to occupy your brain."  Hmmm.  Various ideas flitted through my head.  I wished I had my mp3 player.  Or a radio.  Or my laptop with a wi-fi connection so I could finish listening to that lecture in the free Hillsdale College class I signed up for.

Since the treadmill I was using faces the window, which looks out upon a little bit of snow-covered yard between the house and the woods, I decided to engage in a writing exercise, while the treadmill demanded exertion of a different sort from my body.  I've occasionally bemoaned the fact that I am not a good photographer.  I often see things that are visually rich or emotionally compelling.  But when I try to capture such an image, or the feeling it draws forth, with a photo, it always falls short.  I usually find I have better success painting pictures with words and phrases.  But it takes practice and work.  So it's not unusual for me to see something during my daily life, and spend some time thinking about how best to capture such an image with words.

With this challenge of capturing images with words in the front of my mind, I looked out the window at the snowy and blustery landscape.  I made myself notice the details.  I concentrated on all those little things that we don't generally have time to think about consciously, but which get into the periphery of our minds.  I made myself think of ways to describe what I saw, using engaging turns of phrase and descriptive language to paint a picture with words.

Most of what I pondered today as I treaded and watched, is not worthy of remembering.  Just images and ideas.  But there was one scene that challenged me.  I couldn't find just the right words while I was there, but I'm going to try to work it out here.  

As I gazed upon the snowy woods, I caught a stir of movement out of the corner of my eye.  A patch of deep golden color skittered into the whiteness of the scene.  A dry leaf caught up in the winter wind.  The wind had not yet captured the leaf completely.  It traveled across my view in a hesitant manner, sliding forward a few inches at a time, only to get hung up on something that forced its stop. The snowfield that looked smooth and glossy apparently held obstacles that remained undetected to my eye.

I continued to watch as the leaf made its way across the snow.

Slide and stop.  Slide a little.  And then stop again.  Hesitant.  Fluttering slightly in the wind.  Tipping upward in a teasing sort of manner, only to settle back down against the snow.  Then slowly sliding forward again.

Until suddenly, with a jolt and a tumble, as quickly as it had entered my line of sight, the leaf was gone in a rush of wind.  Up into the air, end over end.  It floated into the trees, and was lost to sight among the gray trunks of the poplars.

As I drove home, I was still lost in my world of words.  Vocabulary and phrases.  Word pictures.  How to breathe life into mere words, to portray a scene as visually rich and constantly changing as life itself?

The black line of the winter road led me forward into the vast whiteness that is winter here in Northern Minnesota.  The view seemed to stretch forever.  The blackness of the highway was broken here and there.  Unsettled.  A blur of whiteness above the black.  When the lay of the adjacent land allowed, the whipping winds lifted the loose snow from the fields.  It hovered along the ground, in a swiftly moving cloud.

As I passed the woods which surround Glen V's farm, I approached a ford.  A snow ford.  One of those spots where the writhing cloud of snow had found a suitable place to cross the highway.  Just as travelers in the old days sought out the best place to cross a river, so too the blowing snow finds its favorite places to ford the impasse which we call a roadway.

The drifting snow seemed to rise up to threaten me as I passed.  It billowed across the road in a thick whirl.  A drift was growing at the side of the road, building a ridge along the highway that would soon stretch across the road, first in little fingers, and then finally, in a thickened mound.

I was plucked suddenly from my world of words.  A haunting strain of music trickled from the car radio.  I heard the opening cadences of the song and instantly felt a beautiful sort of melancholy pull at my heart.  I don't know that I've ever heard Alan Jackson's "Remember When," before.  But as the combination of music and lyrics toyed with my emotions, I recalled that article about music and emotions, Anatomy of a Tear-Jerker.  I don't have the musical skills to easily analyze "Remember When," according to the tear-jerker rubric described in the article.  But I do know that whatever combination of musical techniques that song employs, it works for me.  It got me...right...right...right there.



I may play around with words.  I may try to be interesting and compelling and vivid.  I may even imagine I succeed a little bit.  But I will probably never be able to make my words work like the poetry in this song spins its magic in combination with the musical strains.

My favorite line, by the way, "Remember when the sound of little feet was the music we danced to week to week."

Vince Flynn

Several years ago, I believe it was in the spring of '09, I discovered Minnesota author, Vince Flynn.  I've been trying to recall how I stumbled upon his books.  I think it was a mention on Kelly the Kitchen Kop's website, about a new book coming out, maybe with a link to her favorite reads page.  I followed Kelly's link to Flynn's first book, Term Limits, and was intrigued.  I quickly requested it through the library.  I liked it well enough to immediately request the next one, Transfer of Power, also.  It was after Transfer of Power, the first of the Mitch Rapp books, that I was really hooked.  I haven't read them all yet, but I look forward to such an indulgence. (As a little aside, if you are interested in learning to cook with more nutritive ingredients and methods, Kelly's website is a great place to start.)

From a fan perspective, Vince Flynn is an all around great author to admire.  He writes excellent political thrillers.  He researches his material well.  He's one of those authors who writes about things that might be, and later we find out they were in fact true all along.  His book, Memorial Day, was so accurate that Flynn fell under the watchful eye of the Department of Energy.

Mr. Flynn is from Minnesota, from the Twin Cities area.  He self-published his first book, which is very cool from a writing standpoint.  It is not easy to gain enough of a following in the self-publishing world to garner the attention of a major publishing house.  Mr. Flynn is a family man with fairly traditional values.

Mr. Flynn has a new book out just recently.  The new book, Kill Shot, is the second prequel in the Mitch Rapp series.  I heard in one interview I've listened to that Flynn has a third prequel in his mind that he hopes to write one day, but that his next book will continue the later Mitch Rapp story. 

Mr. Flynn's new books are usually released in the fall, October, I think.  Kill Shot was released several months late, but it's quite amazing that Mr. Flynn was able to finish the book at all.  He was diagnosed with stage three metastatic prostate cancer in November of 2010, in the middle of the book tour for what was at that time his latest book, American Assassin.  The cancer had moved into his hip bone and he at first thought he might have only months to live.  After consultation with his specialists, however, Mr. Flynn was assured that, although his prognosis was certainly serious, it was not as dire as it would have been even a few years ago.  Treatments for his type of cancer have progressed to the point that they gave him a likelihood of living at least five years, but that depending upon how his system handled the treatments, he could very well live a long and full life.

What great news for him and his family!  But also for us fans.  I've really enjoyed reading about his experience, and listening to some interviews.  It's always heartening to hear of someone joining the ranks of cancer survivors.  He is not out of the woods yet, but his treatments seem to be progressing well, and the cancer is diminishing in a predictable fashion, as they hoped.  But Mr. Flynn's story is very inspirational.  He talks openly in interviews about his Catholic faith, his writing career, the importance of his family.  Mr. Flynn has a 16 year old step-son, and two daughters, ages 11 and 9.   He projects such an over-all great attitude that it has reminded me to make better use of my own time here on earth.

Minnesota blogger, Caryn Sullivan, wrote a nice piece on Mr. Flynn and his struggle to produce this recent book while undergoing his cancer treatments.

The most extensive interview that I came across is this one from the Dan Barreiro Show out of the Twin Cities, on KFAN, 100.3. The interview is an hour long, so I wasn't able to listen very carefully to the whole thing, but it was really fun to listen to as much as I did.  Mr. Flynn talks about writing during this cancer battle, about his fear of prescription pain medications, and the frustration of undergoing hormone treatments.  Mr. Barreiro asks about Mr. Flynn's writing career and where he plans to go from here.  And they talk about national security and the very real threats to such security.

I can't wait to read Kill Shot.  If you've never read any of Mr. Flynn's Mitch Rapp books, you'll have to give one a try.  They are a pretty fast read, with excellent characters, and lots of suspense.  I do suggest reading them in order, starting with Transfer of Power.  The characters really develop as the stories unfold.  And although someone could make the argument that one could start with the prequels, I think the mystery about Rapp's background might be less interesting when read in that order.  It's like getting to know a friend.  One doesn't generally gush everything out at the first meeting, right?

Happy reading!

It was the worst of times,...NO, it was the best of times...

I'm taking a break from the rush and rumble of getting ready to pack up and leave with a family of the size of ours.  There are ten of us leaving tomorrow, allegedly right after church.  Our actual departure time remains to be seen.

At times like this, I'm not usually very pleasant to be around.  Generally, in the days preceding the RUSH, I get kind of overwhelmed feeling and start to fizzle out.  I do next to nothing, because it's all a little bit too much for me; my brain freezes up.

Then at the last minute, I start to rush around, frantically throwing things together and hollering and screaming at my kids.  Not a pretty sight.  Then my husband gets frustrated, thinking the kids are deserving of the verbal abuse they are enduring, and he gets into the action.  Ooh, not a good scene.

Then I, who know deep down that the emotional mess is of my own creation, try to sooth things over and get us on the road.

And we always eventually get going somehow.

But really, truly, getting ready for a trip is for me one of the worst of times.

And why, I ask, when I can predict so precisely how things are going to play out, can I not do something to change this sorry state of affairs?  My prayer this time is that even when things get frantic, I refrain from the yelling and screaming.  I want to have a happy Christmas.

So far, so good.

Today, I got up and got moving in a timely fashion.  I made a chore list for the kids to tackle during the day, so that when we do eventually leave, the house is in a not-quite-so-messy state.  My main job for today was to tackle the infamous Mt. Washmore.  Da-da-da-daaaa.  (That was scary, evil organ music, that notorious phrase from Beethoven's Fifth, in case you can't tell.)

I also had several odds and ends to take care of, PLUS, sort out and wrap all the Christmas gifts, AND (since I have five girls with winter birthdays, two of whom are on Dec 27th), I generally buy for birthdays and Christmas all at once for those girls, and end up sorting and wrapping for those occasions, too.

So, I was a little bit busy today, but in keeping with my goal (no maternal ugliness) I tried to stay upbeat and happy all day, and gave myself little minutes to rest my brain in between things.  Like the minutes it's taking me to write this, for example.

Jeremy called me this morning when he got home from work; that was a treat.  We exchanged our Christmas greetings and miscellaneous pleasantries; and I arranged for us to drop off his gifts on our way out tomorrow.

I even took time to do my pilates.

I listened to 80s music on my MP3 player while I washed and folded laundry.

And yet, the clock marched on.  My goal was to have our family Christmas doings at 3:00 or 4:00 pm, but I was still folding clothes at 6:00.  Sigh.  But no ugliness.  I decided I'd have to leave a small portion of Mr. Washmore standing.

I forged ahead and decided on the minimalist approach to wrapping gifts. I gathered all the assorted bags and packages of clearance and second hand purchases I've accumulated throughout the year.  I summoned my husband to "join me in my chambers."  (That may sound a bit risqué to the uninitiated, but the phrase is used by Mrs. Moody in the Little Britches books by Ralph Moody.  Read them if you haven't.  They are wonderful books for all ages.)

Where was I?  Oh, yes, in my chambers.  Joe had just joined me. As I pulled each item out of the packages, his assigned task was to add it to the appropriate pile, youngest to oldest, lined up along the floor of our room.  Generally, we've tried to limit ourselves to one modest new or special gift per child, and we fill in with fun things that I pick up here and there.  So when it's time to finally wrap the Christmas gifts, there is a bit of play, moving some things from one pile to another, until I am satisfied the arrangement will be appreciated by all.  After Joe and I did the first tentative arrangement, I excused him from the process and finished manipulating the bounty by myself.  It's kind of a one person job. 

When I had all the piles arranged to my liking, I put into motion my emergency minimalist gift wrapping procedure.  A plastic bag for each child...tied shut at the top...labeled with permanent marker.  I loaded all the bags into a big box, and then threw a blanket over it all.   This sleigh of sorts, Joe and I then pulled and carried into the living room, and set next to the tree.  It wasn't fancy, but I reminded myself that all the trappings of the season, including pretty papers and trims, is not what really matters.

By the time we had everything ready, it was nearing 7:00pm.  The kids still needed bathed; we had not eaten supper; and the packing for tomorrow was not yet started.  But... NO MATERNAL UGLINESS... right?  Take a deep breath, Mary, and just enjoy the moment.

We gathered everyone in the living room.  I had Matt light the candles on the Advent wreath, and all the others around the living room.  We turned off all the lights in the house except a table lamp near Joe.  He read to us the Christmas story from both Matthew and Luke.  Then we turned off the lamp, and each of us got to choose a Christmas hymn to sing. 

It was the best of times.

When we were done with our Christmas worship, we started the part the kids were all waiting for.  We opened our oh-so-lovely presents.  I sat down by the erstwhile sleigh and, starting with the oldest working to the youngest, one at a time, I gave each person their plastic shopping bag. Each got to open his or her own, before we moved onto the next.  Anticipation built as we worked our way down to the youngest ones.

After the gifts from Joe and I were opened, the kids handed out all the treasures they had prepared for each other these last few weeks.  Colored pictures, puzzle pages ripped from a favorite activity book, candies saved from their treat bags at church, lip balm, lotion, a favorite book, a hand-me-down clothing item...I love to see how creative the kids get in giving to each other with our limited resources.  Probably one of our favorites was one Stella gave to Sophie.  She had used the pretty unused gift tag from one of her gifts.  She filled in her and Sophie's names in the to and from spots, and because it had such a pretty ribbon on it, she gave it as a Christmas tree ornament for Sophie.  Priceless!

It was the very BEST of times.

My Sophie gave me a singing card and a windowed locket containing within it a different colored gem symbolizing each of the fruits of the Spirit.  Clara gave me the painted turtle sculpture that she made in art class last year.  Joe plans to get me the 2012 Writer's Market guide.  And my friend, Christine, who makes beautiful jewelry, and from whom I got some pretty things for my oldest girls, sent along a little treasure for me also: a beautiful, sparkly bracelet that I am wearing as I write this.  It is winking provocatively at me.  I keep wondering what it is up to, with such a merry glimmer in its eye.

Jesus' birth, our heavenly Father's gift of His only Son, is the greatest gift of all.  But my mother's heart joyfully drank in my family's Christmas celebration.  Now I am refreshed to tackle the rest of the things on my list.

Well, I wish I was anyway.  I am filled with a warm glow of the love of God and my family.  But truth be told, I'm really pretty tired and kind of ready for bed already.

On Serial Writing

Perhaps like me, some of you enjoy the writings of Alexander McCall Smith.  He is probably best known for his Ladies' #1 Detective Agency series.  I tried the first book of that series once, but didn't get into it.  I see with a little googling HBO now produces a show based on these books.

I've also read Portuguese Irregular Verbs, and enjoyed its quirkiness; but I've not yet read any of the others in that series.



I really like his Isabel Dalhousie books.  I appreciate how Mr. McCall Smith is able to bring his vast life experience into a learning experience for his readers.  He was born in Africa, in what was then Rhodesia, of Scottish parents; studied law and medical ethics, among other things; plays the bassoon, and has an interest in the poetry and art of Scotland. I learn something new in every one of his books.  

McCall Smith seems able to portray people who hold views different than his own in an honest, multi-faceted way.  I totally groove on his turns of phrase.  They are creative and contrived, but somehow, they work for me, making me chuckle at or ponder or visualize a situation, conversation, or individual. 

I recently checked out 44 Scotland Street from the library.  When I picked it up, I started with the preface.  I was interested to find out that it was written in serial form, for The Scotsman, Scotland's national newspaper.  At this point, there are six novels in this series.  It appears that each one was published in daily instalments for the first six months of consecutive years, starting in 2004.

In the preface to 44 Scotland Street, McCall Smith explains that this book has its origins in a conversation he had at a party in California, at the home of author, Amy Tan (Joy Luck Club and Bonesetter's Daughter).  He heard author Armistead Maupin talk about, Tales of the City, originally published in serial form in the San Francisco Chronicle.  This conversation got him thinking about serial writing. And when he wrote an article for The Herald (Glasgow's daily) about his trip to California, he mentioned the above conversation.  Editors at The Scotsman read the article and asked McCall Smith to try one for their newspaper.  The series is still going strong today. 

I wrote awhile back about the idea of serial writing.  I even started another blog to try my hand at it.  I was hoping to spur others on to try, so that we might have a collection of serials going at one time, but although several people have expressed an interest, so far I have only one other author who has posted anything.  But I, myself, have not been consistent either, allowing other writing projects to take precedence.  And I find that writing has, in common with reading, the difficulty of getting back to a story I have set down for a period of time.  The momentum is gone and it gets progressively more difficult to pick the work up again, the longer I let it go.

But I was pleased to see from this book, that I'm not alone in my interest in the idea of serial writing.  It strikes me as a creative way for struggling newspapers to interest and hold on to readers.  And the act of writing serially produces a different sort of novel than one that is planned and finished prior to publication. 

Perhaps I'll be motivated to work more on Tilda and the Gangster.

Words! Aren't They Fun?

stell 1( verb ) stell to place or fix firmly or permanently; 2( verb ) stell a prop; a support, as for the feet in standing or cilmbing; 3( verb ) stell a partial inclosure made by a wall or trees, to serve as a shelter for sheep or cattle

Finally, I found the definition at definition_of.net.

Thanks, Steve and Holly for finding this for me.  I'm going to remember this dictionary.  Sometimes there are words I know exist that I just can't find anywhere.

Sonnet XXIV
by William Shakespeare

Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd
Thy beauty's form in table of my heart;
My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,
And perspective it is the painter's art.
For through the painter must you see his skill,
To find where your true image pictured lies;
Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still,
That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.
Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:
Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me
Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;
    Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art;
    They draw but what they see, know not the heart.

A Poem: Life at the Abrahamson House While Mom Was Writing Previous Post

Two little sisters jumping on the bed
One put powder on her head
She put it on her sister and then they said,
"We've never had so much fun, jumping on the bed!"

I should never take time out to think.  No.  I should never take time to record my thoughts.

What the Dickens?

It must be especially observed in justice to poor Kit that he was by no means of a sentimental turn, and perhaps had never heard that adjective in all his life.  He was only a softhearted grateful fellow, and had nothing genteel or polite about him; consequently, instead of going home again, in his grief, to kick the children and abuse his mother (for, when your finely strung people are out of sorts, they must have everybody else unhappy likewise), he turned his thoughts to the vulgar expedient of making them more comfortable if he could.

From The Old Curiosity Shop by Charles Dickens.

I love when an author is able, through artful descriptions, to bring to mind specific personality types and social situations.  And Dickens is one of the giants of this art.  He is able to evoke very specific visual images with the written word.  And he creates characters that people relate to in a very personal way.  We love them or hate them or even fear them.

The Old Curiosity Shop, like many of Dickens' works, was originally written in serial style.  I was awed by the following description from a Dickens biography included with the edition I'm reading.  It portrays the depth of his appeal and the anticipation with which his readers awaited a given installment.

When the Irish Nationalist Daniel O'Connell finished reading The Old Curiosity Shop onboard a train, he burst into tears, hurling the sad pages from the window of his compartment.  In Boston, 4000 people assembled at the wharf to wait for the boat carrying Chapter 71 to arrive.  As the vessel approached the dock, those on the shore called out to the captain, hoping to learn Little Nell's fate.  When he shook his head sadly, a moan went up from the crowd.

We don't have anything in our society that can exactly equate with that.  We do have novels and movies that come out in series.  Many people lined up at bookstores for the final Harry Potter book, for instance.  But imagine the scene above.  Imagine the days before mass transportation and communication.  Imagine no instant internet information.

And next think about a book that took 71 installments to reach it's conclusion, each perhaps only a few pages in length.  Remember how Laura and Mary committed to making the stories in their Youth's Companions last throughout The Long Winter?  I know that in the niche genres of literature, such as science fiction, these serials live on.

But I wonder if there might be a place for something like this in pop culture.  What might it look like and how might it be distributed.  A blog perhaps, started by some obscure writer, gradually gaining readership as the story evolves.  Or might a famous author start something to be distributed in the big box stores. Perhaps a news magazine might feature a chapter a week by a rising literary star.  I suppose it could happen any number of ways.

A serial of this sort is probably a romantic idea on my part, but one that appeals to me nonetheless.

Da-da-da-da Da Da

That title to this post is a trumpet fanfare, just in case any one didn't figure it out.

Some readers may know that I consider myself an aspiring writer.  I have many of stories and settings and characters rattling around in my brain waiting for me to have time and focus in order that they may eventually land on paper.

I have to pat myself on the back a bit, though, because I'm very tickled.  I've now officially been paid for my writing.

I had a blast doing it.  I feel kind of bad taking money for something I enjoyed doing.  But Joe has urged me to add up my expenses and time.  The compensation is adequate.   But nothing to feel guilty about.

I might add that I don't feel guilty enough to return the check.  It will help pay for a fair portion of the little summer vacation upon which we'll be embarking in a few days.

Writing, Researching, and Geocaching

A month or so ago, I was asked to write a story for the Northwest Regional Library for one of their summer reading programs.  This sounds like it will be a really fun program, when they get it all up and running.  In conjunction with the area state parks, the libraries hope to offer an Intro to Geocaching class.  The librarians have commissioned mystery stories, one for each park involved, to teach a bit of the history of the area of each respective state park.

The kids who attend the class will receive the initial part of the story, and after finding a series of caches will eventually find the end of the story.  I think this is a really great idea.  What a fun way to learn a little state history and get some fresh air at the same time.  And it also encourages people to make use of Minnesota's excellent state park system.

I was assigned Lake Bronson State Park.  I took a day off from motherhood and my other various vocations.   I escaped to latitudes further north yet than those I generally frequent.  I suppose, technically, Lake Bronson is within the same 48 degree latitude as our home.  Even though it takes an hour and a half to get there, latitudianlly speaking, it's approximately 46 minutes further north.  

After my hour and a half drive northward, I spent a day exploring the area around Lake Bronson and its history.  This task was made much easier due to the wonderful help of Cindy at the Kittson County Historical Society.  They have a fantastic museum up there.  Really.  I could hardly believe the extent of their collection.  The museum is in Lake Bronson and is free to the public but donations are accepted.

Eventually I got my little story done, thanks to Jolene at the library and others for their help in keeping it to the requisite maximum length story.  I originally thought it was Winston Churchill who once apologized for writing a long letter. But I see a couple of different phraseologies of the same idea attributed to Blaise Pascal in his Lettres Provinciales, "I have made this letter longer than usual because I lack the time to make it shorter."  (Boy, how embarrassing to have wrongly attributed this saying in the past.)

At any rate, I got the story done, had great fun with my day off for researching, and finally, I decided I should find out what geocaching is all about.   I'm not going to explain it here, since the web site listed below does it so much better.  But I'll just say it's a global GPS treasure hunt using Latitude and Longitude coordinates.

When we were at the library recently, Joe pointed out The Joy of Geocaching, by Paul and Dana Gillin.  I was reading it the other day on the way to a family outing at St. Hilaire City Park.  (Yes, Joe was driving.) We picnicked and the kids played and Joe fished.  After cleaning up, I took a little walk/run around the park.

When I got home, I checked the Geocaching.com website to see whether there were any geocaches in this area of Minnesota.  Wow.  There are a bunch, including two in the St. Hilaire City Park.  Weird.  I probably was very near them during my walk/run.

But I had not yet gotten my geocaching act together.  Now I have.  Or at least I'm in the process of getting it together.  I have printed up the info on the two geocaches in St. Hillaire in case we are again at the park.  I've also printed up several other clusters of caches in other areas that we frequent, so when we have a few extra minutes we can do a little searching.  (There are two in Lengby, Amy; and four in Red Lake Falls, Laura.)

But today, yes today, I found my first cache.  Dustin and Adam at Carco put two new tires on the van.  (Thanks, you guys are great.)  On the way home, we detoured to see if we could find the Twin Pines cache near Cross Lake.   I really hate to have to admit, but...Joe found it first.  But I was right there on the cusp of the find.  Joe, however, does not have the geocache user name.  I do.  Hee, hee.

The cache by the Neptune Bridge has us stymied.  I was over there with Elsie the other day searching, and again today with Joe.  But it is surely well hidden.  Yes, David and Darlene, that is us tramping around across the river from you.

So we have a new family hobby.  I hope it is something we can all enjoy.  Perhaps we can take some coordinates along when we go on our vacation to the North Shore in a few weeks.

A poem of my own devising

We have an orange mama cat;
She's round as round can be.
She's big as a pumpkin;
Will she have kittens?
Maybe two or three.
Or even twenty-three.

Quote from Vonnegut

I'm currently reading Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut. I've never read any Vonnegut. It is a new and somewhat strange experience. I took up the reading because my son, Jeremy, has to read this book for his HS English class. I don't read everything my kids have to read for school, but I do try to at least read a sampling. It gives me a launching off point for some commonality for conversation during these foreign teenage years.

I'm withholding judgment on the book as a whole. It is strange, is all I will say at this point. But Mr. Vonnegut does have a knack for metaphor. Here is one that appealed to me.

"Well, here we are, Mr. Pilgrim, trapped in the amber of this moment. There is no why."

Writing Pleasant to the Heart

This excerpt appeals to me at some inner level. It's from The View from Saturday by K. L. Konigsburg.

Ethan Potter likes his silence and solitude. He doesn't have many friends. Ethan has just been at a party with some new acquaintances, one of whom, Julian, pulled a puzzle piece from another's hair via sleight of hand.

Ethan is realizing he likes these new friends.

Mrs. Gershom had offered to drive me home, but I wanted to walk. I wanted to walk the road between Sillington House and mine. I wanted to mark the distance slowly. Something had happened at Sillington House. Something had made me pull sounds out of my silence the way that Julian pulled puzze pieces out of Nadia's hair.

Had I gained something at Sillington House? Or had I lost something there? The answer was yes.

20th Century American Lit

I really don't enjoy many books from among the genre considered 20th Century classics. Sometimes I try to quantify why that is. I think the closest I could come is that it reflects the increasingly godless and relativist mentality of our society. I suppose some would call that post-modern.

Follows is my synopsis of a few authors and an imitation. See this is one of the things that frustrates me. I'm sure I'm not giving these people enough credit, but still, for some of them, it seems to take so little thought or art.

There's Hemingway. There is no meaning to life. You live and then die. I suppose one joins a few revolutions against the fascists, among whom might be considered anyone who has more civic power or material goods than yourself.

When you leave me in leave this vale of tears, there you will have no more grief. Never will we have to fight the pigs who own everything and make us grovel for our meager fare. Someday I will join you in the next mysterious rebirth and we will never be parted."

And Salinger. All pathetic lives and hopelessness. Grime.

She ground the stub of her cigarette into the ashtray. The sofa was dingy gray from the years of stale air that always permeated her life. She thought about the blackness of her coming years and wanted to cry. But she was beyond tears.

How about Faulkner? Strange segues and no introduction to the various people or settings.

The old lady slid into the memories of the ruts on the country road. She tried hard not to fall, but when she thought of the boy with the cow, she couldn't help herself....

The blackness overtook him and he was once again a child in the back room crying for his supper.

Jack Kerouac. Drugs. Women. Slang. Run-on sentences.

We were so stoked we just kept running and running and I never saw the lights even through I was cruising the boulevard for hours and hours and the dude on the saxophone was so hip and we danced until we just needed to burn our way into a new gig. I couldn't believe it when we met up with the others and hung at this apartment they had at the time where the rest of us would all get wired and try to chill and then we'd be off running again until we crashed.

Yes, I know, I'm oversimplifying. There are others authors who are more complex. Who spin good plots that use proper grammar and don't find glory in the underbelly of society. It takes real talent and art to construct a good story. I've tried.

But I could probably whip out several chapters quite quickly using any of the above styles. I just can't see wasting my time. There is enough of that in the lives of real people without having to immortalize it in a novel.

Local Color

I just finished reading Vince Flynn's Executive Power. I have to pat myself on the back a bit, because I actually picked it up from the library 2 weeks before I allowed myself to start it. I had goals I needed to accomplish before I could read it, so I kept walking past the library box where the book was, truly, screaming for my attention each time I saw it there.

Flynn included in his book an interesting reference, a cameo appearance one might say, of a local Minnesota personality. When Joe and I lived in Mankato, we could tune into AM1500 from the Twin Cities while in our car. We would periodically listen to Joe Soucheray, host of the Garage Logic radio show. Since that time, Mr. Soucheray's show has spread and we've picked it up on a number of different stations around MN. His basic schtick is that good ol' boys sitting around their garages tinkering and tipping back a few cold ones have the wisdom to solve the world's problems if only someone would listen.

Mr. Flynn is also from the Twin Cities. Some readers familiar with the Garage Logic show will appreciate the following quote.

CIA director and single mom of seven year old Timmy, Irene Kennedy, is musing about the male role models in her son's life.

There was also the quirky Frenchman a few doors down, Mr. Soucheray, who hung out in his garage all day listening to the radio, tinkering with an endless array of gadgets and pursuing his lifelong fascination with the internal combustion engine.

I really enjoy it when an author can include cultural illusions, both well known and obscure, that bring pleasure to those who notice them, without detracting from the pleasure of those who are not in the know.

More on writing styles

Once again, I am relying on the creative energies of another in order to have something to post. No apologies, merely an excuse. I am busy with other things. Some important, Godly, vocational things. Other things that, while not ungodly, are purely for my personal pleasure.

With that preface, here is a comment from Jesse on my picturesque speech post from way back on April 3.

I've been thinking more about prose style lately too, with a possibly vain hope to produce something worthy of publication. Your examples reminded me of the one Clive Cussler book I've read on the one hand, and Victor Hugo's Les Miserables on the other hand. The former style I found a bit tedious in a ridiculously entertaining way, almost like watching Army of Darkness. The latter style I found tedious in the way of 19th-century loquaciousness, yet almost painfully descriptive. Compare Clive Cussler to Brad Thor, whose adventures are similar, even a shade toward James Bond. Yet Thor's style is both easy to consume (partly an effect of good pacing) and lacking ridiculosity -- to use a Bushism.

I am mostly going to let this stand alone, because I have read perhaps one Cussler book, and nothing by Hugo or Thor. I am unfamiliar with Army of Darkness, and only moderately familiar with James Bond.

Perhaps I sell myself short on the James Bond thing. I've seen a number of the movies and have even read a few of the Bond novels by Ian Fleming. Still, compared to a real Bond fan, such as a certain pastor who lives South of us, I consider myself mostly ignorant regarding things Bond.

Alas, I digress. Jesse, are you familiar with the book on prose, "Talking Voices: Repetition, Dialogue and Imagery in Conversational Discourse" which was recommended by my husband in response to my former post. I would be interested in getting your thoughts on it, if you have. I have not read it yet. I rely on the thoughts of others.

I sometimes frustrate my husband. When he wants to know something, he immediately finds the answer. He pulls a book from one of our shelves. Or he searches on line. Or he requests a book from the library. And so he learns.

I like to think about things. I like to wonder. I like to talk about those things I have swimming around in my brain. But I have very little gumption to actually pursue these things in a concrete way. Does that imply that I do not progress in my learning?

Toward More Picturesque Speech

When I teach my kids creative writing there come various lessons on using adjectives, adverbs and other literary tools such as metaphor and personification. I remember my own writing lessons in which I learned about such devices and how they can add color and interest to one's writing.

I also remember my inevitable tendency to overdo the literary tools I was supposed to be making use of. Like Charles Schulz's Snoopy in It was a Dark and Stormy Night. I would creatively and interestingly string together colorful, picturesque, meaningful modifiers so the the reader would glide on the lilt of my words like the King listening to Scheherezade's spellbinding, suspenseful tales. And so it goes.

I've recently read several books that got me thinking about a writer's use of literary tools. When are they well-done and when are they overdone. What is it that makes Jan Karon's images rich while those of Nora Roberts seem silly? Why can Janet Evanovich so successfully use simile to transport her readers and Roberto Saviano makes no sense at all with his metaphors?

Here are some samples.

From Out to Canaan by Jan Karon. The context is a beautiful spring morning in Father Tim's yard.

The morning mist rose from the warm ground and trailed across the garden like a vapor from the moors. Under the transparent wash of gray lay the vibrant emerald of the new-mown grass, and the unfurled leaves of the hosta. Over there in the bed of exuberant astilbe, crept the new tendrils of the strawberry plants whose blossoms glowed in the mist like pink fires.

And now from Nora Roberts, Affaire Royale. The main female character, Brie is looking out across the Mediterranean.

The sea wall was single-minded blue. If it had had its way, it would have consumed the land. The wall prevented that, but didn't tame it. Farther out she could see the ships, big freighters that were on their way to or from the port, sleek sailing boats with their canvas taut.

Now maybe just getting excerpts like this is not enough to make my point, but I will try. I noticed first that in the scenery descriptions the choice of words in the Roberts book are much more violent sounding. A visual image that portrays a feeling a angst. That is consistent throughout the book. Perhaps that is an intentional part of the art of writing a romance? Maybe a romance author tries to subconsciously portray the struggle against human entanglements within other elements of the story line. A bit now and then is ok, but eventually the repetition starts to comes across as somewhat hoaky.

I also noticed that the development of a character who might be seeing something the author describes changes how the reader perceives a certain visual image. For instance, the Karon excerpt when taken alone may actually seem the most contrived of the two I highlighted. But in the context of Father Tim's personality it is just right. Hmm. Now it sounds as though I am saying that his character in general is contrived and overdone. And that is not really the case either.

Another excerpt from Out to Canaan. This one occurs shortly after the first, on the same morning. Father Tim is remembering an experience involving a blackberry he picked the previous summer.

He remembered it distinctly, remembered looking at it's unusual elongated from, and putting it in his mouth. The blackberry burst with flavor that transported him instantly to his childhood, to his age of innocence and bare feet and chiggers and freedom.

I love how Karon is able to touch the reader's own memories with the concrete detail of he blackberry and the list of nearly universal childhood summer features of innocence, bare feet, chiggers and freedom. And also she is describing the universal experience of having some specific sense, a smell or sound, or in this case a taste bring back such a rush of memory. Good detail in writing has to involve the reader somehow.

And again, from Affaire Royale. This time the main male character, Reeve, an independent security consultant, analyzing why he had decided to help.

He'd decided to help her because she needed help, but nothing was ever that simple. The puzzle of her kidnapping nagged at him, prodded, taunted. On the surface it seemed as though her father was leaving the investigation to the police and going about his business. Reeve rarely believed what was on the surface. If Armand was playing a chess game with him as a queen 's knight he'd play along, and make some moves of his own. It hadn't taken Reeve long to discover that royalty was insular, private and closemouthed. So much better the challenge. He wanted to put the pieces of the kidnapping together, but to do so, he had to put the pieces of Gabriella together first.

He just sounds like a cowboy, a renegade. And although he is supposed to be a very honorable man, there is this tough guy, take control sort of thing a reader has to deal with. Again, perhaps a trademark of the romance genre?

Now on to metaphor. I tried to read Gomorrah by Roberto Saviano. This book sounded so interesting, that I was really looking forward to reading it and learning a few things. It is a non-fiction book sharing the author's experiences and insights from when he infiltrated the Napolitano organized crime syndicate.

But talk about overdoing it. This book is so full of poetic prose that the reader eventually despairs of finding any fact hidden within the picturesque language. I am sure it is there. I started it twice to see if that helped. I put it down for a few weeks and tried again. Both times I did find some interesting information. But both times I also got impatient with the fluff. Here is an example.

The port is detached from the city. An infected appendix, never quite degenerating into peritonitis, always there in the abdomen of the coastline. A desert hemmed in by water and earth, but which seems to belong to neither land nor sea. A grounded amphibian, a marine metamorphosis. A new formation created from the dirt, garbage and odds and ends that the tide has carried ashore over the years...

I put the ellipsis in because I got tired just typing it in. That is about 1/4 of the paragraph. All told the actual info from the paragraph could have been said in 10-15 words. But one has to muddle through all the pictures to find the meat.

I guess I don't have the time for it in my life. If I want to read poetry, I'll read Longfellow or Sandburg.

And I also invite the readers of this blog to refresh their memories with one of my favorite Janet Evanovich quotes. I included it in a former blog post. This quote very successfully uses simile to put readers on a stretch of urban highway.

I know this has gotten long, but thanks for bearing with me. And really, please let me know what literary tools work for you. What makes one author's contrivances seem so natural while another author's attempts just get in the way of the story.

Or send me a favorite excerpt, either good or bad. And let me know why you like or dislike it.

I'll close with this. Now, forgive me if this is wrong. It is just an approximation from a book Joe and I started during the months Matt, who is now 13, was colicky. One of us would walk baby and the other would read aloud. We were never totally engaged in this book, but were trying to stick with it. After this we kind of gave up on it. And so from The Silver Chalice, by Thomas B. Costain.

We were standing at the doorway to the threshold of the land of enchantment.

And since I am standing at the doorway to the threshold of that land of somnia I am going to be a rebel and NOT proofread this. Yikes. Some of you may recall the Christmas letter I did for the congregations here?