In My World

December 11, 2009 at 4:36 pm (Creativity, Writing)
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

It’s a very nice arrangement here in My World.
it’s always entertaining here in My World.
- from My World, Troutfishing in America

One of my sisters – although I’m sure the others think it, too – constantly reminds me that my world is not the same as anyone else’s world.  She says it in a slightly derogatory but resigned voice.   She once gave me a Christmas card with a green alien on the front that said “Joy to your world”.

I like my world.

My world has been clashing with other worlds lately.  My brains are a bit rattled and I’m grateful to have a day like today where my world doesn’t have to be ripped open and exposed.  However, the last 15 hours have been enlightening; I am convinced, without a doubt, that my world is perfect (for me, anyways.  You’re welcome to live in your imperfect world. )

I was slightly put out a week ago when one of the writers in my group told me that two men (in a long-term relationship) would never hug in the workplace because the gay world just doesn’t allow that.  I’d done a lot of research before writing this, but the entire story hinges on this one action so I decided to do some more research before I threw in the towel entirely.  I asked a lot of people a lot of questions, and received a lot of very helpful answers.  The best answer, though, came from someone entirely unexpected.  He said, “…you can really have the characters do whatever you like, as long as it’s true to who they are.”

Ah, yes.  Who they are.  In their own worlds.

Last night, the writers were ripping apart my story ( ’salright, it needed to be ripped apart ’cause I’m really stuck on it) when there began a loud-ish discussion about the worlds of my characters.  The writers were all trying to get me to define those worlds, and I just wasn’t understanding what they wanted.  I finally clued in, and asked if the characters’ sexual preferences were really all that important.

You know when someone says one thing but you can tell they mean another?  Imagine a split second of silence, and then five people saying  – in unison – “No, of course not!”.

Yeah.  My world.  In my world, it’s not so important to be defined by one word, whether that one word refers to food preferences, personality, sexuality, or even gender.  I like to be with people who are true to who they are, not what they are.  I now have to think about whether I want to write for an audience which defines their world with anything less than the entirety of Roget’s Thesaurus, or whether I want to write for people who live in worlds like mine.

My world has also won out in the world of teaching.  It seems that traditional methods of teaching ESL are not very effective when used over the internet, and that “properly trained” teachers are losing students.  Following rules is now seen as a bad thing because the rules don’t apply to everyone, they don’t cross cultures.  I’ve been asked to put together a training session to expose the teachers to the concept of students as individuals, and to show them how to think beyond their training.

So, my dear sister can continue to make comments about my world but, quite honestly, this world has done well for me for over 40 years.

I wouldn’t change it for your world.

Leave a Comment

You Did Want “Creative”, Yeah?

November 9, 2009 at 4:56 pm (Writing)
Tags: , , , ,

Been thinking a lot about the process of writing.  Why can I really nail it sometimes, and other times miss the broad side of the barn?

I can’t remember where I read it but I once heard that Susan Musgrave ended up covering a creative writing class for someone and had to teach her own work.  One of the questions in the text was “What was the author thinking when she wrote this poem?”  Musgrave, of course, didn’t know the answer herself and said so in derisive terms.  Wonder if the students received better marks for giving a truthful answer.

Recently, someone has been asking me where I get the ideas for my stories.  I’m embarrassed to answer, not because I’ve been doing exotic or illicit things but because it makes me seem really quite schizophrenic.  Perhaps I was traumatised by my second-year Creative Writing professor (I use the term “professor” loosely; actually, I’m surprised I didn’t need therapy after surviving both my first- and second-year Creative Writing classes).  This would have been in 1989 (according to the literary magazine the poem was printed in, anyway) so forgive the lack of writing ability; I promise you I’m much better at it now.  Here’s the poem:

The Flower Gathering

Keane was putting nasturtiums in the salad

marigolds in the vegetables

pansies in the bread.

Joan pronounced the salmon to be ready

and

Mary and Andrew kissed in their newly-wed way.

Alex fell rather far into a bottle

of sweet red wine.

We all had hibiscus blossoms in our hair

braided hair and long

our skirts long

our thoughts longing.

Guthrie in one room

Dylan in the other

Charity had her guitar in the back yard

sitting among the blue delphinium.

This was our time of being.


Zachary ate the poinsettia leaves.

 

Each of us had to explain the thinking behind our poem.   Well, I was living in Windsor and the city had poisoned all the rats in the alleys so my roommate and I were having to clean up all the dead rats from the back yard.  My cat, Zachary, was sitting in the kitchen window, killing himself in his efforts to get outside and eat all the poisoned rats.  The last line of the poem wrote itself from this scenario, and the rest followed in order from the beginning.  I changed two words from the first draft.

The professor said I must be lying because that’s not the way poems get written.

That’s the way my poems get written.

Sometimes, like Susan Musgrave, I have no idea what I’m thinking as I write things.  My brain creates them, and I try not to get too close to my brain.  I believe my better writing – creative or otherwise – happens when I don’t think too much.  People compliment the things which are spewed from the 8th circle of my brain.  When I analyse and consider and contemplate, the pieces fall apart.  Nice, ordered pieces from the 1st level get comments like “Well, it’s good….”

So, this is my new criteria for writing: if I can answer any questions about it, the piece sucks and you shouldn’t be forced to read it.  If you really like it, I can’t answer a single question so don’t bother asking. If you persist, I’ll think you’re trying to get into my head, after which you’ll need therapy and I don’t think insurance companies cover Acts of Writing.

Leave a Comment

Learning Curves Are Exhausting

November 7, 2009 at 4:08 pm (Writing)
Tags: , , , , ,

Haven’t been writing much here because I am apparently in one of those learning cycles where I’m the one doing all the learning, and sometimes it’s a bit chaotic in my head until I get things all sorted out.  Of course, once it’s all sorted out, I get handed another bunch of things to sort out.  Toss in the mundane life I lead (children, pets, laundry) and I can understand why the famous artsy types often resorted to absinthe.  I’ve never had absinthe but if someone put a bottle on my desk I might be tempted.

This week’s lessons involve writing of the creative sort.  I haven’t had a whole lot of work in the past couple of months, so I’ve been puttering away at some stories.  The TDot workshops (I gave up the meetups, ’cause they were just about socialising and why would I work on useful things like social skills when I found a group of people who indulge my inclination to isolate myself and play with words?) have been life-savers.  I traded stories with one person who has this absolutely… purified voice.  Not a word is wasted; no word could be replaced by a synonym.  Even though he writes on subject matter I wouldn’t usually choose, I love reading his stuff just because he can put together the clearest, most concise paragraphs I’ve ever seen.  He went through my latest stories, and this morning I was sitting in front of my computer repeating, “Oh, yeah, that’s what I meant to say.”  I’m gonna have to give him co-authorship if I ever get published….

This guy has one fault, though: he writes in American English.  I know, I’m being ridiculous.  One language is as relevant and acceptable as the other.  However, one is certainly more beautiful.  Yes, John Dewey had a point regarding the lunacy of British spelling but what about the elegance of the spelling?  When one is reading, would one rather read dialog or dialogue?  It’s the difference between sack cloth and silk.

I also have a problem with American punctuation because it leaves no room for self-expression.  What if the sentence really needs a pause before a conjunction?  Why would I put a period inside the quotation marks when the end of the sentence is outside the quotation marks? Punctuation should be used to communicate voice, not to standardise sentences on a page.  I think we should all learn punctuation from Virginia Woolf.

So, it’s 11 o’clock on a Saturday morning, and I’m still in my pyjamas, and I think I’ll go immerse myself in a fantasy world for another little bit before I face reality.  Dishes?  What dishes?  Dishes are better with absinthe.

Leave a Comment

Gibran-in-the-making

September 19, 2009 at 4:09 pm (English Language, Writing)
Tags: , ,

I did manage to get a copy of the Really Great Imagery piece from the writers’ meetup.

If Marie-Claire Blais’ ability with language can drive me off the deep end, you can imagine what this does to me:

from The Sea

by James Chaarani

My mind moved to the horizon, looking for the sun that was tanning my skin. It was too hazy to see, but in that haze you became clear in my mind. I stared at the waves which were bigger than you. I watched them hit the rocks, splash my shins and touch my lips. I tasted the salt and felt like a God—I found a heaven to watch you from.

I could then see you in your prison that you built for yourself.

Leave a Comment

Why Can’t I Write Like The Other Guy?

September 17, 2009 at 3:49 pm (Writing)

The instructions for the writers’ group this month was to write something containing the words “McDonalds”, “chicken-fried rice” and “a piece of s**t”.   To be honest, I was bored by the exercise, not happy with what I wrote, and was severely humbled by a young writer who does some of the best imagery I’ve ever read.  I’m trying to snag a copy of his piece from last night, and will see if he’ll at least let me post my favourite sentence.

I’m giving up these types of meetings in favour of workshops.  There are just a few butterflies flittering around in my belly.

Untitled

The woman’s dark face is a jumble of lines, intersecting and dissecting. The face, void of teeth, folds in on itself. The skin is a dusky brown, like milky coffee left to turn cold. Her eyes flash with suspicion; her head whips around at every sound. She glares at people, at animals, at things which aren’t visible to the rest of the world. Her sandaled feet scuff along the sidewalk, punting crumpled McDonald’s wrappers out of the way. Her foot connects with a dried piece of dog s**t; a stream of filth flows from her mouth, one word indistinguishable from the next. The stream swiftly turns into a low growl, a primal rumbling from deep within her.

She stumbles along with no destination, no goal. The sidewalk is her footpath; the crowds and the traffic guide her in this direction, then that one.

There is a trash can on the street corner, overflowing with the refuse of the city‘s inhabitants. She flings herself towards it and begins sorting through it as though she knows where to find everything. Between mutterings, she crams in cold French fries, handfuls of grey chicken-fried rice, part of a soggy meat patty. She swills dregs of Coke and Dr. Pepper the way alcoholics swill mouthwash: with a desperation inspired by fear. The meal demands her full attention, and she is temporarily oblivious to the people walking by her, those who stare but keep their distance.

She digs deeper into the treasure trove of the garbage can. There is a red bandanna, frayed and filthy; she slowly ties it around her neck, preening/posturing/posing, stroking it as if it were a priceless string of diamonds a lover had draped around her throat. Thus adorned, her hands smooth her blouse, her skirt, her hair. She twirls, watching her shadow on the ground, marveling at the sway of her skirt as it catches the breeze. The sun, beginning its descent, gleams behind her, casting a gold corona around her wild hair.

She is beautiful.

2 Comments

I wrote about Frank Mahovlich

July 16, 2009 at 4:43 pm (Creativity, Writing)
Tags: , , , , ,

Okay, all nine levels of Hell have frozen over; I know this because I wrote about sports.

I joined a writer’s group in Toronto.  They meet once a month, and for each meeting we are given an assignment.  This month, it was “sports and spirituality”.  I believe the group leaders knew what they were doing, because the second sentence in their e-mail said, “STOP WHINING!”.  Funny people.

There were several people who wrote about matches between Jesus and some other dudes.  I figured this would be the norm, and briefly debated doing something similar before I realised I have no bloody clue as to how one might describe a sports game.  I realised I know absolutely nothing about sports (other than how to avoid them at all costs).  My last voluntary contact with sports was when I was an infant, and my dad taught me how to cheer every time Frank Mahovlich scored a goal.

This is what I wrote:

Psalm for Frank Mahovlich

The Big M, probasti

You have searched me and you know me; you know my getting up and my lying down; you understand my thoughts from afar.

You are with me when I walk and when I sleep;

you know everything I do.

Before I think a word, you know what I will say.

You are in front of me and behind me; your hand is on my shoulder.

Your eyes see who I really am, and even see my faults.

Such things are too wonderful for me; I am not worthy.

How I love the things you say to me; O, how awesome they are.

Will you not slay the wicked, Frank;

make the blood-thirsty man go away from me?

Test me, #27, and see if my heart is true;

test me and make sure I am not lying.

Look carefully, and you will see there is nothing bad about me;

lead me in the way everlasting.

Frank Mahovlich

The Epistle

Dear Frank,

Those who need a god’s help will light candles and spend hours on their knees in front of an altar.  Soldiers marching into battle say desperate prayers to their god.  Those sacrificing themselves give thanks.

This is my letter of thanks to you.

When my husband (it is a vile piece of paper which made him such) hung a poster of you – in your bright red uniform, of course – above our bed, I was a little hesitant.  Naturally, I kept my mouth shut; your image was not worth a backhand across the face.  But, that night, I was glad he turned me face-down to do those things to me, so I did not have to see you watching us.  When he fell asleep, I pulled up the white eyelet sheet and glanced at you.  A moonbeam fell across your face, and you smiled benevolently.  I knew you were my Saviour.

I know you can see the things he does to me.  I know you can see that I do not like it, that I would not do those things to anyone else.  You can see me considering him as I vacuum and scour and sweep and dust.  You can see me picking up the fallen petals from underneath the fresh flowers so the mess will not anger him.

No, I cannot wish him harm; you would never do such a thing.  You do not harm people; you follow the rules, play the game properly.  You would not raise a stick or a fist against anyone.

When he leaves for work in the mornings, you watch over me as I smooth the covers on the bed and light the candle (unscented, so the odour will not be obvious when he returns home).  You gaze at me as I offer prayers to you.  You forgive my sins.  You protect my soul.  You never demand more.

So, this is my gift, my sacrifice to you.  Take me to the everlasting.

On this bed, this desecrated altar where the Pagan has blasphemed before your image, I offer myself to you.  I have not deserved your gifts, your kindness, your warmth.  With this knife and one quick, deep, unflinching slash across my throat, I return all the things you have given me.

Amen

Leave a Comment

Facebook quizzes

June 28, 2009 at 5:22 pm (Creativity, Writing, education)
Tags: , , ,

I love Facebook, because it gives me yet another means of communicating with family and friends while using the printed word.  I don’t think I can honestly call myself a Luddite anymore.

I frequently get sucked into taking some of the quizzes, not because I am in desperate need of their wisdom and fortune-telling, but because… uh, I can’t think of any good reason; guess I do need their wisdom and fortune-telling.  But I could have told you my third Chakra was the strongest, and that I was “zeer Dutch”.  I probably couldn’t have said I was most like J.D. Salinger in the “Which Crazy Writer Are You” quiz, but I’m rather pleased to be so.  (My youngest sister got Stephen King; she is not pleased.)

Some of the quizzes are just a bit too much for my taste; not just the subject matter, but also the questions.  How in the world could my taste in soft drinks relate to which Twilight vampire I most resemble?  This brings me back to my latest thoughts on Critical Thinking; bear with me…

In Grade 10, all the students in Ontario have to take a literacy test, which tests their Critical Thinking rather heavily.   However, Critical Thinking is not overtly taught at any point in the previous 9 years (although, there are teachers who work it into their curriculum, so there are some students who have at least a working knowledge of Critical Thinking, if not a fair ability).   Therefore, Grade 8 should include a mandatory Critical Thinking class, which centres around such things as Facebook quizzes.  Understanding the age requirement for Facebook to be 13 years, and understanding said age requirement to be stoutly ignored by more than half of the class, a Grade 8 teacher would be teaching a) Critical Thinking, b) whole language and c) writing skills.  I can only think of one of my students  – Walaikum – who wouldn’t be amused by such an activity, and he really,  really doesn’t  need anymore help in Critical Thinking.

Facebook quizzes are a much more useful writing exercise for the average high-school student than, say, a 10-page essay on Hamlet’s godforsaken state of sanity.  I say, all English teachers should put me out of business by using Facebook rather than Shakespeare.  Barring that, I’ll entertain all my summer students.

Leave a Comment

That’s not how i.m. goes

June 1, 2009 at 4:41 pm (Writing)
Tags: , , , , ,

Over the weekend, my son had a friend over.  They were playing around on one computer while I was working on the other.  My son’s friend sent me an i.m., pretending to be my son.  Immediately, I sent a message back suggesting that this was not my son, because it didn’t sound like him.  The friend wanted to know how I could tell the difference, if I couldn’t hear voice.  My son and I got into a long discussion, on i.m., noting the differences in our three “voices”.  Eventually, friend got back on and sent us this message:

wtf this is im not a literary essay

Apparently, he’d never debated in print.  He chastised us for using capitals, punctuation, and proper spelling.

I’ve been bawled out for my perpetual use of the written word before.  Someone I worked with suggested that important discussions, and discussions which require the input of several people, should not occur over e-mail.  These discussions, he claimed, should only happen in person.  “Why?” I asked.  He couldn’t tell me, it was just the way things should be.  I was well-behaved, and didn’t ask why we had to do it his way instead of mine.

In my world,  just about everything is done by e-mail.  Growing up, I used to fight with my mother by taping notes to the newel post.  My oldest and dearest friends will resort to (get this) writing a letter by hand when feeling sad, nostalgic, or even ecstatic.  A story, a poem, a song; these are the noblest gifts to give and receive.

I despise telephones.  I like face-to-face conversations, as long as they don’t involve excessive thinking, emotion, decision-making, etc; I think slowly, and need the processing time print allows.  I love seeing friends and family, but prize a letter more.

When i.m.ing, I don’t mind if people use short forms, or forswear capitals.  But the choice of words is still vital, if the recipient is to understand precisely what the writer is discussing.  When my children i.m. me with, “i’m hungry”, I don’t tend to react; a message saying, “i’m ravenous, and thinking of gnawing on the cat” will likely get me into the kitchen (if only because I’m very fond of the cat).

Voices.  The written voice is so… wickedly cool.  “hi shelia its peter” is something my son’s quiet, polite, reserved friend would say.  “i’m god, worship me” is something my Pan-Galactic Gargle-blaster son would say.  My son would also spell my name correctly….

Print leaves a permanent record.  Where would history be without written records and accounts?  How can the human brain understand progression and change without reviewing written accounts?

I will maintain this position until the day I die: the printed word is of great importance.  It doesn’t matter if the printed word is on papyrus, a bathroom wall, the same writing paper it’s been on for 20 years, i.m., or the palm of a sweaty hand; the written word is the best word.

1 Comment

The pen is the mightiest, but we knew that

April 3, 2009 at 6:48 pm (Creativity, Writing)
Tags: , , ,

I love it when I have tangible proof I have clicked with my students.  It’s not a requirement for a good relationship, but it’s really nice for my ego.

My students frequently assume  little things from me: my vocabulary, my taste in literature, my preference for Jasper (not Edward), my one-size-does-not-fit-all approach to education, the way I write my 7s and Zs in the European style.  The best part is when they insist on writing with my pens.  Last night, I was watching Endymion take notes, and it made my little heart sing.

Black liquid ink pens: a sign of true love

Black liquid ink pens: a sign of true love

I use black liquid ink pens.  Generally, I buy them from the dollar store; quality is not really an issue.  The pens have a practical use, in that most students find my writing easy to read if it’s black ink on white paper.  I also like the texture of the writing, the feel of the pens, and the smell.  If I can’t have a quill and home-made ink, I want this type of pen.

My favourite students have all adopted the use of black liquid ink pens.  They don’t become my favourites because they use the pens; the favouritism occurs first.  The advocacy for black liquid ink pens just seals the bond.

Naturally, my students’ adoption of my pens is strictly due to their devotion to me, but I wonder if other students would choose black liquid ink pens for another reason;  I wonder if part of our “literacy problem” is the lack of aesthetics in writing.   Students are taught to write in pencil, make their letters the same way each time they write them, conform to standards set by an institution.  When they get older, they have to use ballpoint pen, or type, because legibility is the main issue; teachers don’t have time to squint at papers when they have several hundred of them to mark.

What would happen if we handed each kid the writing implement of their choice (a purple crayon for Harold, of course), let them choose their writing surface, didn’t follow any stupid rules about margins or font size, and let them doodle if the spirit moved?

What would have happened if Frederick Franck or Nick Bantock had given up on aesthetics and followed all the rules?

Leave a Comment

Writing honestly

February 5, 2009 at 4:41 pm (Writing, education)

Albert Cullum, in Push Back the Desks, makes some wonderful points about writing in school:

...I asked myself, “What have you written lately?”  How difficult it is for most adults to write; even penning a little thank-you note brings out beads of sweat.  With all the rules established by non-writing teachers, it’s no wonder that the most painful job of the elementary school child is to pick up his pencil and write.  Write what?  All the teacher’s rules are bad enough, but write what???  To write honestly is to expose oneself, and how many nine-, ten-, eleven-, or twelve-year-olds are willing to expose themselves to teachers with all their rules of right and wrong? … Children write safely. (Cullum, 1967)

My students hate it when I ask them to write something, anything.  They ask, “What should I write about?”

“Anything you feel like writing about.”

“What if I don’t feel like writing?”

“I need you to write, because it is my job to teach you about writing.  Write about not wanting to write.”

“How do you do that?”

Even given subject matter, my students find it well-nigh impossible to write.  If they do manage to write something, it’s minimalism at its best: nothing can possibly be criticised, because there’s nothing there.  And, yet, I still need to point out all the mistakes, because my job is to teach the kids to write well enough that they will get a good grade from the teachers who haven’t taught them to write.

I can write anything, because a) I’m old (and therefore practiced), and b) it’s something I’m good at.  If I don’t want to be criticised, I can write glib and glossy garbage which will pass right through the mind of my criticiser.  However, should you ask me to create a mathematical problem, you’re likely to get 2 + 3 = ? because I know there isn’t a lot of wiggle room in that problem.

I think I’ll be practicing my math problems more often now…

Leave a Comment

« Older entries