To those who pray, Em and I could use some. The pregnancy is going well and the baby is fine and we are (slowly) getting the house ready for its impending occupant come June. But pregnancy and chronic conditions don't mix. Pain management is one thing, but when you can't take the medicine for 9 months for fear of harming the developing life inside you . . .
Suffice it to say that we are weary and heavy-laden. Please don't feel pressured to pray.
But, if you would, we would appreciate it.
Hey folks, I'm going to a little writer's (support) group Friday of this week and we're all taking a short-short to discuss. I'll post my entry up here to get your responses as well. If you see anything that needs changing or strikes you as false, let me know, 'kay?
--
Cora - 1956
My daddy left for Korea yesterday morning. He got his army clothes out of the hall closet and left on a big silver bus. We went with him to watch the bus leave town. My daddy is a very brave man to leave for the war with Mother and me still at home. He told me that he would miss me and kissed my cheek. I miss him very much.
Sometimes it makes me cry because we can't go for our walks in the woods across the Cheuckahoba River. He would tell me about the trees and the frogs and we watched the sun going down behind our house across the river. Daddy called it the Golden Time, when the sun hid just behind the buildings of Coffeyville but it was still bright enough to see. He said the light touches everything and turns it to gold. Mother didn’t like our woods. She only came a few times. She said they were too dark, and too dangerous. Daddy and I teased her, making owl noises. I ran ahead and hid behind a tree, then jumped out to scare her. She made me promise never to run ahead again.
That night, I opened my window that looked out to the forest over the river and closed my eyes. I felt the wind and smelled the pine trees. Christmas was only 4 months away. I wondered who would put up our Christmas tree if Daddy was still in the war. Daddy used to tickle me with the pine needles that fell from our Christmas tree. I yawned and smiled.
While I was yawning, I felt something on my cheek. Like the pine needle tickle, but lighter. I brushed my cheek with my hand thinking it was a butterfly or a mosquito, but nothing was there. I opened my eyes and the most beautiful cat was sitting on my windowsill. He was staring at me with gorgeous golden eyes peering out of a light brown face.
"What's your name, pretty kitty?" I asked. He showed his teeth so I apologized and called him handsome kitty. "Are you hungry, kitty?" I asked. He yowled, so I went down to the kitchen to get him a bowl of milk.
I tiptoed past Mother’s room and down the stairs, edging past the second stair from the top because it squeaks in the middle, and into the kitchen. I didn’t turn on any lights. The bowls were in the cupboard by the sink and the bottle of milk was in the refrigerator. I pulled a chair from the table to reach my favorite blue bowl. I set it on the ground in front of the refrigerator, and opened the door so I could use the light to see the bowl and not spill the milk.
After pouring the milk, I put the bottle back in the refrigerator and pushed the chair back to the table. Taking my blue bowl in both hands, I started back towards the stairs, but the milk kept trying to slosh over the rim. I had to slow down a lot. It took forever to get back to the stairs and I was so frustrated that I forgot to step on the edge of the squeaky step.
Kreeeeek.
I froze. No lights came on, no doors opened. I crept up the stairs and back to my room and put the bowl of milk on my dresser. The kitty waited until I stepped away, then he leapt from the windowsill to the dresser to drink the cool creamy milk. He made hardly any noise leaping and creeping toward the bowl. I decided to name him Patter because of the little sounds his paws made when he walked.
Patter finished his bowl of milk, then started licking his face and paws. He curled up in the middle of my bed and fell fast asleep. I petted him and brushed him with my hair brush. He nipped me when I tried to brush his tail though, so I left it alone.
My very own sweet kitty Patter, asleep in my bed.
The sunshine on my face woke me the next morning. Patter was still snoring slightly. I petted his face and scratched his belly but he squirmed away.
Just then, Mother knocked on my door to wake me. The sound startled Patter and he climbed over me, jumped from the bed to the dresser then out the open window onto the roof of the porch, growling and hissing all the way. He knocked the blue bowl from my dresser and I heard it break. Mother ran in screeching, "Who's in here? What was that noise? What happened to you?" I looked down and there was a tear in my night dress from under my left arm to my right side under the ribs. The thin pink lines on my skin wept three small drops of blood.
I ran to the window, hoping to see my Patter on the roof of the porch. I found only the shattered remains of a nest and pale blue eggshells crushed by cruel sharp teeth.
--
Cora - 1956
My daddy left for Korea yesterday morning. He got his army clothes out of the hall closet and left on a big silver bus. We went with him to watch the bus leave town. My daddy is a very brave man to leave for the war with Mother and me still at home. He told me that he would miss me and kissed my cheek. I miss him very much.
Sometimes it makes me cry because we can't go for our walks in the woods across the Cheuckahoba River. He would tell me about the trees and the frogs and we watched the sun going down behind our house across the river. Daddy called it the Golden Time, when the sun hid just behind the buildings of Coffeyville but it was still bright enough to see. He said the light touches everything and turns it to gold. Mother didn’t like our woods. She only came a few times. She said they were too dark, and too dangerous. Daddy and I teased her, making owl noises. I ran ahead and hid behind a tree, then jumped out to scare her. She made me promise never to run ahead again.
That night, I opened my window that looked out to the forest over the river and closed my eyes. I felt the wind and smelled the pine trees. Christmas was only 4 months away. I wondered who would put up our Christmas tree if Daddy was still in the war. Daddy used to tickle me with the pine needles that fell from our Christmas tree. I yawned and smiled.
While I was yawning, I felt something on my cheek. Like the pine needle tickle, but lighter. I brushed my cheek with my hand thinking it was a butterfly or a mosquito, but nothing was there. I opened my eyes and the most beautiful cat was sitting on my windowsill. He was staring at me with gorgeous golden eyes peering out of a light brown face.
"What's your name, pretty kitty?" I asked. He showed his teeth so I apologized and called him handsome kitty. "Are you hungry, kitty?" I asked. He yowled, so I went down to the kitchen to get him a bowl of milk.
I tiptoed past Mother’s room and down the stairs, edging past the second stair from the top because it squeaks in the middle, and into the kitchen. I didn’t turn on any lights. The bowls were in the cupboard by the sink and the bottle of milk was in the refrigerator. I pulled a chair from the table to reach my favorite blue bowl. I set it on the ground in front of the refrigerator, and opened the door so I could use the light to see the bowl and not spill the milk.
After pouring the milk, I put the bottle back in the refrigerator and pushed the chair back to the table. Taking my blue bowl in both hands, I started back towards the stairs, but the milk kept trying to slosh over the rim. I had to slow down a lot. It took forever to get back to the stairs and I was so frustrated that I forgot to step on the edge of the squeaky step.
Kreeeeek.
I froze. No lights came on, no doors opened. I crept up the stairs and back to my room and put the bowl of milk on my dresser. The kitty waited until I stepped away, then he leapt from the windowsill to the dresser to drink the cool creamy milk. He made hardly any noise leaping and creeping toward the bowl. I decided to name him Patter because of the little sounds his paws made when he walked.
Patter finished his bowl of milk, then started licking his face and paws. He curled up in the middle of my bed and fell fast asleep. I petted him and brushed him with my hair brush. He nipped me when I tried to brush his tail though, so I left it alone.
My very own sweet kitty Patter, asleep in my bed.
The sunshine on my face woke me the next morning. Patter was still snoring slightly. I petted his face and scratched his belly but he squirmed away.
Just then, Mother knocked on my door to wake me. The sound startled Patter and he climbed over me, jumped from the bed to the dresser then out the open window onto the roof of the porch, growling and hissing all the way. He knocked the blue bowl from my dresser and I heard it break. Mother ran in screeching, "Who's in here? What was that noise? What happened to you?" I looked down and there was a tear in my night dress from under my left arm to my right side under the ribs. The thin pink lines on my skin wept three small drops of blood.
I ran to the window, hoping to see my Patter on the roof of the porch. I found only the shattered remains of a nest and pale blue eggshells crushed by cruel sharp teeth.
I'm totally yoinking an idea from Phee over at Res ipsa loquitur. She says
This also shall I do. You can see her happiness collage here. And below you can find mine, with (hopefully) appropriate attributions. I'll actually be using flickr instead of google though. (I like it better. shh.)
The pictures below are all mine, taken by either myself, my wife or an uninterested third party.
Oh, and this site, Contrariwise: Literary Tattoos. Fair warning, the site does not post any nudity, but some tattoos are close to private places.
Oh, and basically any in-browser flash game. Current favorite is this guy Dog Fight 2. I sing Snoopy and the Red Baron, Part 2 in my head while I play.
instead of blogging and swimming in the cesspool of negativity [that is Monday on the internet] I went to Google and put in "happiness" and then clicked on images I liked.
Since a lot of them were images of people throwing up money in the air and looking doofy (Google is a shallow mistress, apparently), I also added some images from my own personal preference.
This also shall I do. You can see her happiness collage here. And below you can find mine, with (hopefully) appropriate attributions. I'll actually be using flickr instead of google though. (I like it better. shh.)
The pictures below are all mine, taken by either myself, my wife or an uninterested third party.
 |
 |
Oh, and this site, Contrariwise: Literary Tattoos. Fair warning, the site does not post any nudity, but some tattoos are close to private places.
Oh, and basically any in-browser flash game. Current favorite is this guy Dog Fight 2. I sing Snoopy and the Red Baron, Part 2 in my head while I play.
I don't know much better than a clean brass quintet playing dixieland jazz. Below is a video of some folks I don't know playing just that. If you like that dixieland brass jazz style, check out the Canadian Brass. If you like the sound, but want classical , check out the Canadian Brass. If you just want soaring trumpet in either style, look to Wynton Marsalis.
If you don't know this song (Sixteen Tons), do a quick search. You can watch Tennessee Ernie Ford, Johnny Cash, Merle Travis or the Red Army Choir sing it. But my fave vocal presentation is by Barry Carl, bassist for Rockapella. You can see it here.
If you don't know this song (Sixteen Tons), do a quick search. You can watch Tennessee Ernie Ford, Johnny Cash, Merle Travis or the Red Army Choir sing it. But my fave vocal presentation is by Barry Carl, bassist for Rockapella. You can see it here.
Holy guacamole, guys! It's been a week since I last posted and only sprinkles this whole month. That's never good. I also missed one of my FlashyFiction posts. Yeesh. C'mon man, check yourself before you wreck yourself.
So obviously, I've been industriously occupied while neglecting my blog-keeping role. Right? 40 pages written on the first novel of a trilogy that defines Postmodern Southern Gothic? RIGHT!?
ummmmm. Not really. I did a little house painting, a little yard maintenance. I wrote some scene sketches, three-quarters of a short-short. And I was frakking sick over the past weekend.
Plus, I got plenty bogged down in reading about muscadine/wine production. And man, that stuff just goes in one eye and out the other. Zero retention. Other than jotting a bit about the specialized lingo and marking some diagrams in the books, I learned more from an episode of Good Eats about fermentation and talking with my dad. (It helps that he's a horticulturist.) But that's a learning style issue.
How has your week been? How do you do research for your stories? Is Wikipedia your best friend? (Interesting side note: While Wikipedia is discouraged as an academic source in the library, it is praised as a easily navigable repository of general knowledge with usable citations. Except for the articles about politics, religion and football rivals. Those are prone to hyperbole and pranking.)
--
Bee Tee Dub: Sometimes paint that looks tan in the can looks stucco pink on your walls. Just saying.
So obviously, I've been industriously occupied while neglecting my blog-keeping role. Right? 40 pages written on the first novel of a trilogy that defines Postmodern Southern Gothic? RIGHT!?
ummmmm. Not really. I did a little house painting, a little yard maintenance. I wrote some scene sketches, three-quarters of a short-short. And I was frakking sick over the past weekend.
Plus, I got plenty bogged down in reading about muscadine/wine production. And man, that stuff just goes in one eye and out the other. Zero retention. Other than jotting a bit about the specialized lingo and marking some diagrams in the books, I learned more from an episode of Good Eats about fermentation and talking with my dad. (It helps that he's a horticulturist.) But that's a learning style issue.
How has your week been? How do you do research for your stories? Is Wikipedia your best friend? (Interesting side note: While Wikipedia is discouraged as an academic source in the library, it is praised as a easily navigable repository of general knowledge with usable citations. Except for the articles about politics, religion and football rivals. Those are prone to hyperbole and pranking.)
--
Bee Tee Dub: Sometimes paint that looks tan in the can looks stucco pink on your walls. Just saying.
My brother shot me a link this morning. He noticed it on his Google news. Thanks brother.
This is from the Sunday LA Times, an essay by Dani Shapiro entitled "A writing career becomes harder to scale." She talks about the blockbuster model in publishing, but also the process of writing and perseverance:
In what may possibly be my favorite line of the entire thing, Shapiro calls publishing "the nerdy distant cousin of the rest of media."
But it's not all doom and gloom! Shapiro paints the room dark, but points toward the goal of writing: the transformation and transmutation of personal experience into universal truth. And, as Robert Frost once said, that makes all the difference.
Read it here.
This is from the Sunday LA Times, an essay by Dani Shapiro entitled "A writing career becomes harder to scale." She talks about the blockbuster model in publishing, but also the process of writing and perseverance:
The writer's apprenticeship -- or perhaps, the writer's lot -- is this miserable trifecta: uncertainty, rejection, disappointment. [. . .] My internal life as a writer has been a constant battle with the small, whispering voice (well, sometimes it shouts) that tells me I can't do it.
There now exist only two possibilities: immediate and large-scale success, or none at all.
Writers now use words like "track" and "mid-list" and "brand" and "platform." They tweet and blog and make Facebook friends in the time they used to spend writing. Authors who stumble can find themselves quickly in dire straits. How, under these conditions, can a writer take the risks required to create something original and resonant and true?
In what may possibly be my favorite line of the entire thing, Shapiro calls publishing "the nerdy distant cousin of the rest of media."
But it's not all doom and gloom! Shapiro paints the room dark, but points toward the goal of writing: the transformation and transmutation of personal experience into universal truth. And, as Robert Frost once said, that makes all the difference.
Read it here.
I had a line of brilliant twinkling things to say. I had planted these seeds and ruminated, waiting, waiting for the right time to produce them. Today I sat down to harvest.
Some ideas grew slowly, ever so slowly, resisting any interference or attempts to fertilize, but beautiful and robust. Some ideas sprouted new growth at a tremendous clip, then shriveled. Some ideas became spitting violets, snarky and cranky and crass. I was proud of my garden, swollen with import and paternity. I was planning to share.
Then I received a call from a coworker. This morning she had to put down her oldest friend, a pit named Chomp. But she refused to have her shift covered. "I need to be there."
The slight whisper of death saps brilliance and light, steals the blush from the rose and stills the laugh in out throats.
But even before I heard about Chomp, I'd found myself dwelling on death lately. A new life beginning forces us to a recognition of that dirty little secret we do our best to forget, that lives also end. Provisions must be made. Wills and insurance and grandparents and godparents, what if I, what if I, what if we die?
Some ideas grew slowly, ever so slowly, resisting any interference or attempts to fertilize, but beautiful and robust. Some ideas sprouted new growth at a tremendous clip, then shriveled. Some ideas became spitting violets, snarky and cranky and crass. I was proud of my garden, swollen with import and paternity. I was planning to share.
Then I received a call from a coworker. This morning she had to put down her oldest friend, a pit named Chomp. But she refused to have her shift covered. "I need to be there."
The slight whisper of death saps brilliance and light, steals the blush from the rose and stills the laugh in out throats.
But even before I heard about Chomp, I'd found myself dwelling on death lately. A new life beginning forces us to a recognition of that dirty little secret we do our best to forget, that lives also end. Provisions must be made. Wills and insurance and grandparents and godparents, what if I, what if I, what if we die?
That is, today I checked out a pamphlet and 7 books about grape production in Mississippi, American wines, fermentation and muscadines.
Why? Because I have a wild hair about wine for a new short and I don't know wine country real well. Grapes grow on vines over trellises, right? Something about soil? We'll see how this goes.
Why? Because I have a wild hair about wine for a new short and I don't know wine country real well. Grapes grow on vines over trellises, right? Something about soil? We'll see how this goes.
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