An Educator

My parents were natural educators. I didn’t know that until I got to watch them in action with my children. When John and Grace were still arm babies, my dad would carry them around his place showing them trees and plants and animals, both domesticated and wild. I doubt they remember learning which is a box elder. Or not to touch poison ivy. Or that goats don’t like the rain. As far as they know, they’ve always known.

My mother helped teach them to read, first because she read. Then because there was comfort reading side-by-side with her. She taught them the joy of watching young ones grow and learn. Baby goats, baby chickens, baby flowers and vegetables.

“Plants?” you ask.

“Yes. Plants,” I say. The yellow rose, climbing on a trellis. The peach tree, espaliered against the barn’s north wall. The strange little bonsai lemon tree.

I guess the plants were more trained than educated, since they did not learn how to grow. Learning does require a certain amount of choice and the plants had none.

So maybe the babies were not learning, either. Since they were too young to choose. Have I written myself into a thought quagmire? Make an assertion then in the next few paragraphs prove myself wrong?

Where was I?

Ah, yes. An Educator.

We all learn in different ways. As an anarchist by nature, I don’t take well to training. Rules turn me to rebellion. Maybe that’s why English suits me so well.

“But English is full of rules,” you might say. “I before E. No double negatives. Do not end a sentence with a preposition. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.”

And you would be absolutely right. But the joy in English – and rules, in general – is that they are so easily broken.

The way I learn best is to be given a question rather than an answer.

Now you know why I rail at postulates in geometry and self-improvement and how-to books in the library.

So what have I done to learn how to write creative nonfiction? I bought how-to books. There are so many. You can make a steadier living writing how-to-write books than you can by writing. Kind of like a lawyer getting steadier checks if he’s elected judge.

There are probably how-to books out there that could educate even me. The ones I got are not them. These, instead, make me want to go back to fiction and stay there.

Then I found Touchstone Anthology of Contemporary Creative Nonfiction, edited by Lex Williford and Michael Martone. This is not a how-to. It’s a they-did. It has creative nonfiction from David Sedaris and Amy Tan and Barbara Kingsolver and so many others. The stories remind me of Bailey White and Baxter Black. And my friend Daniel Alexander (who writes fiction so real I know those folks.)

Their creative nonfiction is not journalism. It is not vignettes about famous people. It’s not memoir too much about themselves. It’s about regular people they know. Characters they love, maybe not like you love your children, or your spouse, or your favorite teacher. But characters you’ve run across in your own real life whom you remember. Maybe with a touch of anger, or a tear, or a laugh.

They were someone you learned something from because they made you ask yourself a question about you. They were an educator.

Discovery, Despair, Dead, Done.

“Good morning,” my husband said.

“Creative Nonfiction has to be true,” I replied.

He put down his reader and looked at me in that patient-I’m-gonna-point-out-the-painfully-obvious way he has and he said, “That’s why they call it nonfiction.”

Epiphanies before coffee are not pleasant.

Let me explain. My daughter Grace, who is a talented writer, is taking a creative writing course at a local college. She writes “literary.” She’s good at it. She wants to be awarded a Pulitzer one day. And to be honest, there’s a good chance she will be.

Ah, to be “honest.” There’s the rub.

I’ve been telling stories my whole life. Some of them, I’ve been telling so long I think they’re true.

I have only ever considered writing nonfiction during moments of greed. Nonfiction sells better. Or during the rare psychotic break, when delusions of grandeur tell me I can write the definitive biography of Dr. Angie Debo.

Grace believes I can write anything she wants me to and right now she is studying creative nonfiction and is enthralled with it. She’s grown up with my stories and loves them. (She’s a good daughter.)

Last Friday I wrote a favorite story from my childhood. It was good. It was better than good, it was grand! It would be accepted on the first submission. Readers would await my next nonfiction story with bated breath. There would be a book, a collection of my recollections.

Then serious questions arose. Should I use real names? If I do, will I be accosted at the local Walmart by an angry relative? Or sued by an angry relative of someone in the story?

I ordered books. They came yesterday, only a week after I wrote the story. Lee Gutkind’s You Can't Make This Stuff Up has an index of words so I cut right to the chase, page 37. “If a person is identifiable . . . you are not shielded from litigation.” Even if you change the name.

Then comes a section he heads “Libel, Defamation, and Writing About the Dead.” I’m saved. I’m the only one in the story still alive.

But – there’s always a but isn’t there – he goes on to say “be honest, accurate, and ever so careful.” He uses words like “fact check” and “ethical” and “legal” and “moral.” He tells frightening stories about journalists and novelists, and biographers who were “caught.”

Okay. My dad’s still alive and he knew all these people in my creative nonfiction. So I asked him, “Do you remember So-and-so?”

He did.

“Was he the local Such-and-so?”

Daddy laughed. “No. He was the depot agent for the railroad.”

Discovery. Despair. That piece of creative nonfiction is Dead. And I’m Done.

But wait. It’s a good story. It’s just not true. I can Deal with that.

Character Building -- An Essay

While I went about my daily business after posting yesterday’s “Briers and Brambles,” I couldn’t get the character out of my mind.

I often write flash fiction to practice some aspect of writing – world building, dialog, scene setting. Rather like an artist does studies of hands or ears or faces.

Yesterday was an exercise in tension building. At least that was the intent. As it turns out, there was the beginning of a character in that piece. A character that I think I’m going to like. At first I thought she’d make a great protagonist for a detective novel. Maybe a whole series of novels. Do I sound like a writer or what?

She was alive in today’s world. But I don’t write in today’s world. I write sci-fi/murder mysteries. I built my world in Murder on Ceres. It’s fully populated with characters I find interesting and satisfying. Dead and Gone is my next novel, currently a work in progress, as they say. It has the same characters in the same world. I didn’t need another character. There’s a new antagonist, but considering what happened to the antagonist in Murder on Ceres, that’s to be expected. 

So I put this woman out of mind. After all, I had important real world activities to perform – dishes to wash, appointments to schedule, an expired auto license plate to renew.

But she wouldn’t go away. So I'm giving her a chance to adjust to my world. She’ll have to move to the Denver Region and to the future where civilization is centered in shiny metal cylinders orbiting Mars. Can she give up her attachment to the Colt 45 Automatic, Model 1911? She’s just old fashioned. But is she too old fashioned?

Any new character sends me back to the basics I learned from William Bernhardt. He writes thrillers and other things. Most importantly for me, he teaches and he’s written The Red Sneaker Writers Book Series. And more particularly, Creating Character: Bringing Your Story to Life. (Available from Amazon. Click here.)

Its Appendix A: Character Detail Sheet is a revelatory exercise. I’ve learned that my new character was born on Earth; her name is Madeleine Denise – a name she hates; she’s generally brown like most people on Earth at this time; she doesn’t suffer fools; and she’s a damn good cop.

Look out Joe and Rafe and Terren. There’s a new character on the block.

Briers and Brambles -- Flash Fiction

Brilliant veins of light slashed across the sky drowning her night vision. A double crack of thunder and the smell of ozone told her it hit close. She closed her eyes to recover sight. She pressed her back against the glass and steel wall, a mail drop box the only thing between her and the empty street. She held her gun tight against her right leg.

Wind whipped rain washed across the street. It blew under the bill of her cap, cold on her face.

Had he gone underground? That’s what she’d do. Only one access point for him to watch. He’d see her, if she followed. And she had to follow. The subway went wherever he wanted to go. She’d never stop him.

Another flash of light and deafening crack of thunder, but she was ready. Head down slightly, her Yankees cap shading her eyes enough. Gran was wrong about Yankees. Sometimes they did do some good.

Someone moved west from the subway entrance, staying close to the building. Was that him? She couldn’t tell. Too much rain.

Gran was wrong about rain, too. She always said, “You should take it and be glad for it, ‘cause come August it’ll stop.”

The man crossed to her side of the street. Too big. It wasn’t him. He tried to look everywhere at once. That was good. That meant he hadn’t seen her. She didn’t move. Stillness made her invisible.

More movement going east from the subway. That was him. She was sure of it. But who was the big guy?

She couldn’t hide in the shadows and let that little son of a bitch get away.

Gran was right about life and her.

She felt the hard steel in her right hand and tensed, ready to run. Big guy or no big guy. Rain or no rain.

“Life’s full of briers and brambles, Sugar Pie. But you’re no balloon.”

Again?

Again?

“Again?” I ask as the telephone rings and I step out of the shower. Sure enough. It’s a number I don’t recognize. The robotic voice urgently informs me that my car’s extended warranty has expired. Really? It’s only twelve years old. Disconnect.

“Again?” I ask as the dog stands gazing expectantly at the back door. But I just sat down. Can I ignore her for a moment? Can she wait for that moment? What are the possible consequences to my sitting a little longer? “You are such a good dog. Get off the porch.”

“Again?” And this one’s from a collection agency. I have telephoned. I have written sending photocopies that prove I do not owe them $10.46. I know it’s not much money, but I don’t owe it. They think eventually I’ll just pay it to get them off my back. A collection agency for $10.46? How much are they spending to try to collect $10.46? “Dear Sir,” I write. “Enclosed, please find photocopies of Explanations of Benefits showing that I do not owe $10.46 for these services.”

“Again?” But it was 80 degrees yesterday. It’s supposed to be in the 70’s today. And they say snow tomorrow night and Friday morning. “Wherefore art thou, Spring?”

“You look like you could use a hug,” he says.

“Yes, please.”

“You smell good,” he says.

“Again? Please.” I ask while he still holds me.

A to Z Blogging Challenge

2015 April A to Z Blogging Challenge

To all my friends out there who write stories, who read stories, or who live stories. That means everybody! It’s almost here. And you only have five days to sign up. The annual April A to Z Blogging Challenge. Click here for all the information you need to be ready to hit the ground running April 1. No April Fool’s. Well, maybe a few of us April Fools.

I did this last year and liked it. Yes, the me who does not join, does not follow rules, and religiously resists suggestions and advice. We make a concerted effort to write a blog entry every day. We get Sundays off. Each day has a letter. April 1 will be the letter A. April 2 will be B. And so on. Our topic for each day will begin with its assigned letter.

Last year I started with A is for Antepenultimate. I know, a bit pretentious. But I do love words. Especially words that are new to me. Like all my blogs, they will focus on writing; flash fiction; reviews of books, movies, TV shows, and – if I can find the funding – live productions; and a new-found interest, creative nonfiction.

I don’t do recipes, but you can. I don’t do how-to pieces, but you can. And I hardly ever do philosophy, religion, politics, or medicine. But you can. Just begin with the day’s letter.

On day 2, that’s next Thursday, the letter will be B. So if you’re into quilting and chickens, you can do Bow Ties and Barred Rocks. Or photography and cats – you know who you are – you might do Black and White Bob Cats. Or saving money and raising beef? Baling Wire Repairs and Black Baldies.

Whatever your interest or concern, you can blog about it. And by the time you get to P, you will discover you have had ample opportunity to be pithy or pissy. You’re right. I’ve gone too far. But I’m on a roll and there’s no stopping me now.

When you sign up, do follow their rules. I didn’t so my blog is all lower case letters and I failed to put my two letter code after. I would have put (WR) for writing, if I had done it right. And they won’t let you change it. Oh, well. I’m starting at number 1397. As time goes on my number will change. People drop out – who knows why. Maybe they get married, move to Argentina, die. Doesn’t matter. If they don’t post for five days or the powers-that-be discover they’re a business using the Challenge for advertising, they get deleted. And we all move up the list.

Don’t have a blog already? That’s okay. There are several outfits on the internet that you can use to start one. I use Google’s Blogger. My daughter-in-law uses Word Press. The Challenge doesn’t have a preference.

Oh my goodness! I just changed my desktop to the Challenge’s calendar. Already I miss my Ceres and the surrounding star field. The calendar is relentlessly cheerful. Not that Ceres and Space are not. They’re just so much quieter and calmer about it. And it was easier to see my icons.

I’m ready. I’m pumped. I can do this! And you can too.

See you Wednesday – I mean 'A' Day.

A New Dog -- Nonfiction

Maggie May

Our Basset Hound died last summer and our Dachshund Oscar before her so we were down to one dog for the first time in at least 25 years. One dog, no cats, no birds, no chickens, no snakes. Just one dog – our Gracie Lu, a dapple, smooth coated Dachshund.

And dozens of fish, but fish are such quiet, unassuming pets. They require little attention and disdain any interaction. No cuddling. No adoring gazes.

We meant to get another dog before Bess the Basset left us, but it just didn’t happen. My husband, a veterinarian, now works in administration and no longer does clinical work, so dogs don’t just materialize at our door any more.

There was that young prairie dog that showed up on the front porch, but that’s a different story.

He, my husband that is, has always wanted an Airedale. We had one once. Hard-headedest dog we’ve ever had! Airedales are the largest of the terriers and they do tend to be, shall we say, independent.

On another occasion we had what our daughter-in-law thought might be part Airedale. That dog was in a shelter where she volunteered and was scheduled to be euthanized if he didn’t find a home. So she brought him to us. Hip-high at the shoulder with wiry hair, and no stop. His only Airedale-ness lay in his coloring, if you ignored all the gray. More likely he was part Irish Wolf Hound and no Airedale at all. He was the kindest dog we’ve ever had, except for the occasions when he practiced Dachshund tossing. He just got so excited sometimes.

Anyway, my husband accepted the mission to find a new dog. At first he looked for an Airedale. Then he focused on Dachshunds. Then we visited the local animal shelter. None of the dogs seemed quite right. They had a lovely rabbit, but we have plenty of them running the neighborhood wild, including the one who regularly produces babies under our front porch. (Which has nothing to do with prairie dogs or this story.)

Finally he turned the search over to me. I told my friend, who trains dogs and volunteers at the local shelter. We especially wanted a Dachshund under one-year-old. A smallish dog that I could lift into the car by myself in an emergency.

In the course of our discussions, I told her about my husband’s long-standing yen for an Airedale and my admiration for Blood Hounds. I do like hounds. Red Bones are, in my opinion, the most beautiful dogs ever, but quite uncommon on the Front Range.

She told me about a new arrival at the shelter – probably part Blood Hound, around three years old, spayed, housebroken, 75 pounds. Sounded like just what we’d been looking for.

I called my husband at work to see if he would be agreeable.

“Go see her. I’ve got too much to do here to go with you. Three isn’t too old. See what you think. I trust your judgment,” he said.

So I did. My father and I went before lunch that very day.

At the Foothills Animal Shelter, they put us in a visitation room. It’s a real uptown shelter. And brought this great reddish gold dog in and left her with us. She’s obviously NOT a bloodhound. But, equally obviously, she is part some kind of hound. She has a broad head, big muzzle, lots of lips, and a bit of drool. Think Hooch of Turner and Hooch, the Tom Hanks movie. She’s not that slobbery, besides that dog was a Dogue de Bordeaux, pure bred. Our dog is neither. Not French and not pure bred.

She is beautiful. Her eyes are the same red-gold color as her hair which is short, thick, and luxuriously soft. And she loves people. We brought her home.

The guy at the shelter suggested I walk her and Gracie Lu around the block before I took her in the house – maybe ease that initial meeting. So when we got home my father waited with Maggie (that’s what I wanted to call her) in the van while I went inside and got Gracie Lu for this recommended walk around the block.

Gracie went for her. And I don’t mean in a good way. That great alien beast of a dog was too close to her mama and Gracie would run her off or kill her which ever came first. Dogs have no sense of size. At 20 pounds, Gracie was sure right would make might and she was right.

What a rodeo. I yanked on leashes and yelled and was able to stay between them to prevent either of them getting hurt. My Dad got Gracie back into the house and I was standing in the driveway with a thoroughly confused big dog that I didn’t know at all well.

I called my husband and explained what happened.

“Is anyone bleeding?” he asked.

“Just me,” I said. “Broke the nail back into the quick on my little finger.”

He couldn’t leave work right then. I couldn’t take Maggie into the house with only my father there to help me referee. Daddy is pretty spry for 89 years old, but not strong enough to deal with 75 pound Maggie or adrenalin pumped Gracie Lu. So I called my daughter. We got the dogs inside and began the introduction process.

Thinking of it as an Arab-Israeli style peace would be too strong. Maggie was not interested in fighting. She just didn’t want to be eaten by a Dachshund.

She met my husband at the door, barking and growling. She quickly decided he belonged here and wanted a belly rub.

“She’s not a Bloodhound. She looks like a Pit Bull,” he said.

“They said maybe she’s part Mastiff,” I countered.

“Have they ever seen a Mastiff?” he asked.

The next day Maggie snagged an unopened bag of hotdog buns off the dining table and ate as much of them as she could before I caught her and took them away. She can easily reach the table, standing flat-footed on the floor.

Two days later I made pancakes for breakfast. Gracie was still being testy about Maggie’s very existence. I put the pancakes in a plastic bag and left it open on the top of the stove so they’d cool before I put them in the freezer.

By then the dogs were being allowed in the back yard under supervision. My husband was getting a chance to watch Maggie’s general behavior and the way she ran, all loose jointed.

“She’s definitely some kind of hound,” he declared.

Daddy found both dogs chowing down on the pancakes. Maggie had gotten them off the stove.

Three days later, the dogs were getting along pretty well. Probably bonded over the pancake caper.

On the fourth day we had to leave the dogs unsupervised in the house for one and one-half hours. Fearing for their lives, I put Gracie in her box in our bedroom and left Maggie loose in the rest of the house. What could go wrong? There were no left-overs on the table or stove. It did occur to me that if Maggie knocked the fish tanks over, that would qualify as a disaster. But they’re big and heavy, on sturdy stands, and against the wall.

When we got home, everything on the kitchen counter was strewn across the kitchen floor. An unopened jar of horseradish was under the dishwasher. A jar of cinnamon was under the table and a box of salt was under a chair. She’d apparently decided against exploring Tony Chachere’s Creole Seasoning. There were muddy smears on the counter and on the papers and cook books on the floor.

Now I’m not the world’s greatest housekeeper, but my floors aren’t muddy. The next possibility was dog poo. A careful sniff relieved that dread. And stepping around the couch into the living area, I found the source of the “mud.” A previously unopened box of Swiss Miss hot chocolate mix. A couple of the packets were in gooey shreds and the powder was everywhere.

I called my husband at work. “I guess I’m going to have to improve my housekeeping. All food stuffs will have to be behind closed doors. Or we’re going to have to get a box for her.”

He came home bearing gifts – a big Kong toy and an extra big box.

“I know what kind of dog she is,” he announced. “You’ve brought us a Bumpus Hound.”