From the desk of Professor DaltonI post my own writing here, along with notes about my process. I'd love your feedback--please let me know what you like, or how you think I can strengthen my work. Drop me a line, tweet at me, or stop by my classroom and speak your mind.
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Little Bird
This is a short story I wrote after I had a dream about a bird that turns into a little girl. I spent a lot of time revising it with a ton of feedback and hope to get it published someday in a collection of folk tales I'm working on. It's way too long to include here (about 9 pages), so I've included the link. Not My Style
Antler chandeliers, thick log beds, cowhide lampshades, leather tissue boxes, Sculptures of cowboys charging into danger, mouths formed in an eternal “Yee-haw!” Tree stumps carved into bears, a utility knife with my name on it, Pink bear paw slippers, Twangy tunes with themes of “she done me wrong.” Candy whose only purpose is to rot out baby teeth, American Indian prints, a camo huntin’ hat with a bottle opener right there on the bill: $24.95. These are things I mock. I try not to be obnoxious about it, Don't want to hurt the person’s feelings, The person to whom these things appeal. To each his own. But this is not my style. I don't wear cowboy boots, Don't have long hair, Or a mullet. I don't wear Wranglers, Or turquoise. I prefer flowy clothing, Yoga, New Age music, Incense, and Almond milk. I knit: Lace, Baby sweaters, Shawls. I meditate and read high fantasy. I have no room to judge. My family dresses up and attends Comic Con, and A few friends and I are getting ready to start a Dungeons and Dragons campaign. And yet. There's something about a place like this, Where people walk their property lines Mending fences, clearing brush, And minding livestock. I do enjoy river rock. And I can see myself In a rocking chair on the porch, If not with a brown jug in my hands, A mug of cocoa. I can see myself stacking cord wood For the winter, Making ready to keep warm when snow flies. I would gather pine cones and Use them to stamp a golden pattern on my Homemade Christmas cards. That is, if I had time for crafting After the cows were milked. I would lie on my back In the tall grass, And I would know the name of the Stalk whose end I chewed, And not ironically. I might not buy the hunting cap, But right there next to it Hangs a cute little canvas backpack That I would gladly pay $41.95 to own. And on the clearance table, Living in harmony right next to the moose statue And the cowboy mugs, Are some pretty little fresh water pearl earrings That I can see myself wearing with that Pink silk dress-- The one that flows and rustles like Birch leaves or water When I walk. I would buy this house, And perhaps I'd have a red plaid flannel blanket On the couch. There would be cell service, And I could play whatever music I wanted. Sometimes it might be a ballad. I would still knit-- Sometimes lace, Sometimes warm, bright orange beanies. And I'd live happily alongside my Neighbors, Not judging, But enjoying the textures and colors, Like the strong evergreen growing tall Beside the yellow, trembling aspen. One spring afternoon,
We climbed into the tiny red convertible, Top down, And drove to St. George. The noise of the road made it impossible to listen. Relieved of the burden of communication, I sat back and experienced the ride. This is what I did: Ate Two small packages of fruit snacks, Warmed into softness by the floor heater. Rested My arm on the current of wind That fought back at us the whole way down. It blew my skin around, Loose on my muscles. We laughed, But secretly I wondered if I should work out more. Maybe toning would give me the option Of fighting back next time, Even if I didn’t want to. Closed my eyes And faced the setting sun. The creamiest orange light Shone through my eyelids, And I felt I could keep them shut forever, If that particular orange would promise to stay. That was the moment I knew my rambling thoughts Were worthy: When a small part of my mind turned back to the Crayon box, Picking through, looking at names, And that particular shade of tangeriney, apricotty Orange Became my favorite color. After the sun went down and the orange light faded, I thought about asking to put the top up, But then the stars began to come out. I remembered that these billions of Tiny points of light are the best thing About being away from the city. Without a moment’s shame, My fickle mind announced its new favorite color: O, how I love this deep, dark, midnighty, cobalty blue. Ate Approximately twenty-seven Small handfuls of Asian cracker mix, Throwing back the sesame sticks, Because he likes them and I don’t. I lie to myself and say that if He didn’t like them, I wouldn’t leave them there. Played With the wind. Inside the car, The smoothest, kindest breeze Patted our faces and tousled our hair. Raising my arms or leaning to the side Gave the wind a chance to beat me soundly, Drawing tears from my eyes, Then drying them before they could Cross the finish line of my chin. The wind made me sleepy. It swirled around and inside me, Almost seducing me into closing my eyes, Removing my seat belt and letting it steal me away. It was strong enough. I could have. But I would be missed. No one would be here to hand him soft, warm, Fruit snacks. So I kept myself strapped in and told the wind to try someone else. Held His smooth, cool, strong, gentle hand, And felt glad I can do this any time, Not just when we happen to be in a red convertible Driving to St. George. We passed A windmill, Calves, lambs, colts, Some dead trees, and sagebrush, All of which had bored me the last fifty times we Made this drive, Especially the sagebrush, But which looked stunningly Real and alive this time With no windows, or roof, or blind spots To hide their charms. |
6/25/17
1/17/17 This was written at another writer's workshop where we got an hour to walk around alone and write whatever we wanted. This is what I came up with. Not much revising yet, but I like it okay the way it is. 6/30/16
I wrote this poem a long time ago, and let it sit. Then, this summer, when I attended a month-long writing workshop, I decided to do some revising. I got a lot of feedback and worked on it for several hours, tweaking, tweaking, reading aloud, and more tweaking. I'm pretty happy with the end result. |
Poem for a Grieving Friend . . . and Me
There are supposedly five stages, But this feels more like a roller coaster-- One I'd really like to stop and get off, Even though I'm currently hanging upside down A hundred feet above the earth. I didn't sign up for this. He's gone, And I didn't sign up for this. Can we just talk about something else? He's been gone twelve hours and already I don't want another person to cry on my shoulder Or ask me how I am Or say anything that reminds me He's been gone twelve hours. Stupid, Stupid, Stupid. Not sure whether I mean me or him. So selfish. Didn't he know what this would do to The rest of us, Left behind? Didn't he care? If only I had been there. I could have Said . . . Made him . . . Done . . . Tried to . . . Been better. I gave him all I had to give And now this. Beautiful, Beautiful boy. I love . . . No. He's gone. I loved him so, So much. Pieces. I am broken into pieces. Everything hurts, Here, And here, And here, But mostly my heart. What is wrong with me? Why don't I feel Anything? What kind of monster . . . I can't do what everyone expects me to do, Even though they're supposed to be the ones Comforting me. Why why why, dangit? How about those Mets? Or the weather? Is there even weather going on? I'm intensely interested, If there is. I'd like to talk about it all day long, And that reminds me I should put in a load of laundry, And we're almost out of ketchup. I'm so glad I didn't yell The last time he Ruined everything. So glad, So grateful. I couldn't have lived with the guilt. I can't live with the guilt of being So sorry I didn't say whatever it was He needed to hear In order to make a different choice The last last time. I have a thousand questions For him And God, Starting with Why couldn't he have just gotten better? And ending with Why couldn't he have just gotten better? We tried so many things, Something should have worked. Someday, Maybe, The promise of seeing him again, Whole, Will bring me comfort Or even peace. Maybe the words "He's in a better place" won't make me Want to punch someone Scream Rage Stop begging my heart to quit Beating in my chest so I can go there too And just Be with him, Beautiful, Beautiful boy. I had a feeling Something like this would happen All along, And tried to prepare myself. But that never works. I was lost With him, And I'm lost Without him. Maybe, Someday, I'll just be okay with All of it. With me And him And the way things happened Even though none of it was in my original plan. Right now I just want to cry For a minute, And then let's talk about something else, Because I didn't sign up for this. The Book of Healing (working title)
The forest was dark, but there was just enough moonlight filtering through the trees that an observer, if there had been one, would have noticed furtive movement. A tall, slender figure moved quickly through the shadows, pausing frequently to make sure no one was following. In a small clearing, moonlight flooded down, revealing more: the secretive individual was male, middle-aged, with bright, intelligent eyes. He did not look fearful, but cautious--as if it was crucial that his quest go unnoticed by anyone. He wore close-fitting leather clothing and carried no weapon. There was a small wooden chest in his arms. At length, the traveler slowed and stopped. There was nothing that obviously marked the place as a destination different from any other spot in the forest, but he seemed to be certain. With great deliberation, he raised the chest high above his head, and looking up into the heavens, he chanted words that had not been heard in this part of the world for centuries. This chanting went on for what seemed like a very long time, when suddenly a curious beam of light pierced the thick canopy and shone down on the wooden chest. The man stopped chanting and lowered the box to the ground. The dull thump it made on impact with the composted soil of the forest floor indicated the contents were quite heavy indeed. The man must have been strong to carry and hold such a weight aloft, seemingly without effort. With the chest on the ground, illuminated by a light that did not come from the moon, the man looked around once again to make certain he was alone, and then returned his attention to the chest. He took a few long, slow breaths, closed his eyes, and stretched his hands out parallel to the ground, as though reaching for something that he could pull from the earth. For a few seconds nothing happened. Then, with a great rumbling and cracking of stone against stone, walls of solid rock rose, fully formed from the forest floor, unearthing trees and plants that stood in its way. A young jaguar, stalking some unknown prey, found itself suddenly raised to a great height. It quickly leapt from the wall and ran off into the trees, its empty stomach and easy quarry completely forgotten. The man was quickly obscured from view as the walls continued to grow. When they reached the height of at least two tall men, one standing on the other’s shoulders, they stopped with one last great crash. Forest noises began to sound again, a cricket here, an owl there. Aside from this new wall that would soon be covered in vegetation, the forest showed no evidence that anything untoward had happened within. If one had tried to walk around the new wall that had sprung up, it would have taken a full day. There was one opening, without a door, leading into what appeared to be a maze. This forest was so ancient and so vast that no traveler would chance upon it for a thousand years, and when they did, it would not be chance that led them there. Leagues away, in the closest village to the forest, a small red fox nosed about doorway of the cottage closest to the trees. A small wooden chest, identical to the one hidden in the maze far away, sat in front of the door. As the final wall went up, a light glowed brightly from the crack between the lid and the chest, pulsed three times, and went out. The fox skittered away at the light and returned to the safety of the forest. The chest would wait to be discovered until dawn. Better Safe than Sorry
"It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real." So says the Skin Horse to the Velveteen Rabbit in the classic children's book. The great thing about reading is that one doesn't need to love a book until its pages are falling out or the title has worn off the spine. Good writing makes good stories instantly real, and some of them stay with us forever. We love seeing them brought them to life--these dear friends and close relations of ours. Taking well-crafted words and exposing them to all the senses makes them even more real. I suppose that's why we're so disappointed when a book-to-movie adaptation doesn't meet our expectations. But sometimes, an author, screenwriter, director, actors, composer, theme park, and savvy merchandisers come together in a perfect storm of creativity and we are not only satisfied; we are part of something real. Hopefully, everyone has a fictional book that is real for them--not just a story. In my case, it's Harry Potter. I can say with complete confidence that this isn't just a book and movie series. It's absolutely, 100 percent real. Fact: there's no way any writer, I don't care how brilliant they are, could create a world that detailed and awesome. Basically, JK Rowling is a biographer. This series is so real to me that when I recently designed a Harry Potter t-shirt for my husband, I couldn't use my idea. Let me explain. I wanted to give a specific t-shirt to my husband, who also enjoys Harry Potter, but not at the same level I do. He hasn't read the books, and won't get an account on Pottermore. He chose not to participate in my 2015 Spring Break Pilgrimage to Orlando and the Wizarding World of Harry Potter, where I wept tears of joy and experienced zero inhibition while waving a wand around, muttering incantations. I am a 51-year-old woman. I did these things and felt only the rightness of my actions, along with a twinge of sadness that the 85 degree weather with 92 percent humidity prevented me from wearing my wizard's robes. Yes, I have several sets. As Professor Snape says, "Ob-viously." Anyway, my husband insists he is a squib. If he's going to go that far, to claim that he has wizard blood but no magical ability, why not embrace full-on wizardness? It's not like he's pretending to come from completely non-magical stock--otherwise he'd be a muggle. Also, he probably wouldn't be married to me. I mean, some of my best friends are muggles, but still. I have my limits. So humoring him, I set out to purchase a squib t-shirt. Except that product doesn't exist. Apparently, people don't want to advertise the fact that they're squibs. I get that. On the flip side, muggles who know what squibs are probably feel desperate to pretend they're wizards. The closest thing I could find was a shirt that read "muggle" with an arrow pointing at the person next to the wearer. He might have gone for it if the arrow was pointing straight up, but where's the sense in having it point at me? So I decided to design a squib t-shirt myself. As the only squib with the guts to admit it to the world, my sense was that he'd wear it proudly. To ensure I wouldn't be guilty of trademark infringement, and possibly to avoid recreating the wheel, I looked up squibs on the Harry Potter Wiki. There is, in fact, a society for the support of squibs, but the wiki didn't offer any additional information. So I created a logo for the society to go on the front of the shirt. I'm not a graphic designer, but I flatter myself it turned out pretty well. Then, drunk with artistic brilliance, I had the brainwave to put society members' names on the back. I could list them: Marius Black Anne Boleyn Angus Buchanan Arabella Figg Argus Filch The Brothers Thurkell Dolores Umbridge's brother Molly Weasley's second cousin My Husband So clever, I thought. I'd probably leave Umbridge and Weasley off, since we don't know their first names; however, humiliating Dolores would be fun. Ha ha, yes, it was all coming together. And then my genetic tendency to catastrophize, projecting out to the worst possible scenario, kicked in hard. What if one of the people whose names I put on the shirt found out somehow? (Clearly, I refer to those still living. Anne Boleyn of course would not be raising any objections.) Maybe one or more of them (or their family members--I'm looking at you, Dolores) did not want to be outed. What if they didn't actually belong to the society, preferring to languish unmagical, alone, and anonymous? They might be really upset--I could even find myself in legal trouble. Can the Ministry of Magic even prosecute from across The Pond? And how does the magical world punish libel? The blood chills. I am not kidding here. I legitimately had these thoughts, got cold feet, and quickly clicked submit, sending the logo off to the printer before I could change my mind and do something foolish. Weeks went by. I gave the shirt to my husband for Father's Day. I was right--he was delighted--put it on immediately. And as I told him about the idea I'd had for the back, and started to say why I hadn't been able to use it, reality hit me like a ton of bricks. This happens a lot with Harry Potter, most often when my pragmatic husband is around to kill the magic. I stopped myself, laughed ruefully, and reluctantly admitted that until that very moment, it hadn't crossed my mind that the above-imagined scenario could never have played out. Ever. My husband roared with laughter. Still, I feel I made the right decision in leaving names off the shirt. After all, didn't Dumbledore say that even though something is happening in your head, it doesn't mean it's not real? He also said that he's usually right. So you just never know. Ashley's Batty Adventure
The bat landed on Ashley's back with a dull thud. It was dusk, and she had seen them flying low overhead, coming out to hunt as the sky darkened, freeing them from the awful brightness of the sun. They didn't scare her. Lots of people are afraid of bats, but she knew that was mostly superstition. Blood sucking! She snorted. These bats ate bugs and fruit. There was less call to be afraid of them than of ants, which sometimes bit and stung. And don't even get her started on cockroaches. Bats? No problem. Not for a rational person, which she definitely was. Once, on a family trip to Carlsbad Caverns, Ashley had attended a bat talk, witnessed the daily bat flight, and even adopted a bat, which she promptly named Francesca. She was a friend to the winged mammal, Chiroptera. And here in Japan, there were lots of them. Circumstances had changed a little, because now there was one on her back, and all friendly feelings were quickly deteriorating. It had swooped so low she could feel the rush of wind its wings created. Then it had landed. On her. From the weight of it, she guessed it was about the size of a large hamster. She screamed. Loudly. Take that, you echolocating monster! Ashley and her friend Keiko were standing in front of a tall apartment building in a suburb of Tokyo. They had just locked their bikes up before riding the elevator to the fifteenth floor to visit a friend. Moments before, hundreds of people had exited the nearby train station, arriving home from the evening commute. Some of them glanced her way. Americans were always interesting to look at, but screaming Americans . . . well, they could not be ignored. She screamed again. "Getitoffme!!" Keiko looked over at her, alarmed. "What?" she asked, looking concerned. Ashley looked over her right shoulder at Keiko. The bat began to crawl up her left shoulder. She couldn't turn her head back now and come face to face with the thing. She closed her eyes. "Getitoffgetitoffgetitoffgetitoff!" She screamed again. More commuters looked over. Some of them stopped and stared. She arched her back and began running in clockwise circles, as if to escape the thing on her shoulder. She jumped, trying to shake it off. Its tiny claws grasped the fabric of her shirt and hung on. Not so innocent now. Her heart was racing, and she couldn't see straight. She was only vaguely aware of the small crowd of people starting to gather. Keiko just stood there and stared too. "What is your problem?" Keiko asked stupidly. Ashley screamed again. All of these people were morons. Flick the damn bat off my shoulder, idiots! Fear makes everyone swear. No one was moving to help, of course. She was on her own, a crazy American alone in a crowd of completely shocked-senseless Asians. She must look the bat in the eye and maybe scare it off her. She took a deep breath, opened her eyes, and whipped her head around. This was, without a doubt, the bravest thing she had ever done. The bat scrambled to her other shoulder. Ashley's screams doubled. No one moved. Keiko seemed genuinely concerned, but also confused. When this was over, Ashley was getting new friends. Smart friends. Friends who would notice if a freaking bat landed on her and help. "Get what off you?" Ashley whipped her head around again. The bat moved back to her left shoulder. She screamed and screamed and screamed. "The. Bat!" She spoke as coherently as she could, through clenched teeth. Obviously it wasn't working. Keiko still looked confused. She spoke quietly. "Ashley. There's no bat." "On my shoulder," she yelled. "My shoulder!" "Um. No bat." Ashley kept up her dance, turning her head back and forth, the bat scrambling across her shoulders every time. She could feel its little bat claws digging into her back now, its hot, batty breath on her neck. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, a sane little voice whispered, "Didn't you put your hair in a ponytail this morning? A long, heavy ponytail?" She stopped dancing. Stopped screaming. Put her hand up to her shoulder and felt the thick rope of hair resting there. No claws, no wings, no bat breath, no bat. Who's the moron now? |
8/16/15
A very close friend's son died from an accidental drug overdose recently. She was obviously very sad, but I could see that she had all the confusing emotions that grief brings. I wanted to let her know that I understood--as much as anyone can understand another person's grief. So I started to write this poem about what I saw her feeling. As I wrote, I found my own emotions getting stronger and stronger, and realized the poem was very much about me and for me as I still grieve for a student who died by suicide. So the poem ended up having a healing effect on me and my friend. I was grateful to hear that she read it over and over, and said it helped. That's the best thing a writer can hear about their writing--that it helped another person navigate through an intense struggle. 7/1/15
Here's the prologue to a fantasy novel I started. This is a rough, rough draft, and I haven't gotten any feedback yet. I don't know if I'll keep working on it, but this is a start. 6/25/15
I worked on this piece at a writing workshop. The exercise was to write about something you feel passionate about. Coming up with the topic was easy! It took me a whole week, and I had to get a lot of input from other people. I probably rewrote it three times, and tweaked it about twenty times. I ended up being pretty happy with it, and I got lots of laughs when I read it to the group. 6/23/15
First of all, I'm horrible with titles. That is all. The writing prompt was to write a horror story or something with a surprise ending. I've been working on this story for about ten years, but haven't ever been able to get it right. It's a true story, so I think my desire to tell exactly what happens may get in the way of writing it well. It works great when I'm telling it to people, but writing is totally different. So I tried telling it as a fictional story this time. I'm not totally happy with it yet, but I think it turned out much better than any of my past versions. |
Photo courtesy of pottermoreforum.net