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“Of course,” I say whenever asked if my fictional writings are based in real life. Sometimes, people are curious to know some examples of the factual being fictionalized. Here are some actual scenarios from my life or others’ recently added to my file that I may well incorporate into some story someday.
Watching the evening news, I was compelled to pull over a kitchen chair and get my out-of-date globe from the top of my entertainment cabinet and find Tunisia. I dusted the globe off and used it throughout the hour. So—Rose or some other character might have a similar experience sometime.
Family party – For a joke, sister 1 in the living room texts a message to sister 2 in the dining room, “I know where you live and I’m going to kill you tonight.” Sister 2 becomes distraught, is ready to call 911. Sister 1 tells the truth. Sister 2 is not amused. A yelling match escalates into a fist fight.
My seven sisters and I met for a weekend at a hotel. We got acquainted with the desk clerks, and managers and the hotel’s restaurant manager, Bob. We were enjoying dinner in the restaurant on Saturday night and Bob presented us with a complimentary bottle of fine wine, elegantly pouring it for us. Omigosh, I am just now reminded about Friday night at that sistahfest. Traveling from different places, we had started arriving around 3pm and the last three got in around midnight. We were settled into the lobby to greet each other and here came the manager with champagne, complete with floating strawberries! As he leaned over the coffee table and began to serve, the tray tipped and the flutes crashed and the champagne spilled all over us. Friday night is way more interesting than Saturday, isn't it?
A woman sitting in worship leaned over to her neighbor in the pew and whispered, “I think I forgot to turn the stove off.” She left and came back in about 15 minutes. (But in fiction, of course, this could turn out differently!)
In the post office parking lot during the holidaze, a woman inadvertently cut off the driver behind her as she swung into a parking place. He stopped his pickup truck behind her, waited until he had her attention through the rearview mirror, applauded, flipped her off, and drove on. They approached the entrance together, and she hastened to apologize. He was in no mood to accept the apology and when she urged him to go ahead of her in the line, he said, with a flourish, “Oh, no. I am a Southern gentleman.”
Late on a Sunday afternoon, traveling from Boston to Columbia SC, I pulled off the interstate at Blacksburg to get gas. Seeing signs to Virginia Tech, I decided to stop by the campus. This was just a few weeks after the tragic shootings and the day after commencement. There were only a few people around, but all the immediate, temporary memorials were still in place. I detailed the quiet somberness and many details of mementoes and messages in my journal.
Sometimes nothing more than a one-liner or overheard snippet or news item is sublimely useable or leads to an idea:
a child named Octavia because she was the eighth child
from an obituary—the person passed away “…from head trauma sustained in an accident on his beloved Harley Davidson.”
“I’m disgusted with being old.”
“Have you googled those talking cats yet?”
“Humans have been around for thousands of years…”
“Pollen is evidence of the romance of pine trees…”
“His wife got married to a black lady.”
“Sometimes the juice ain’t worth the squeeze.” Has everybody but me already heard this?
“She was born with crooked legs and put up for adoption.”
“I feel like a bird left without a branch to land on.” A Haitian talking about the earthquake and cholera outbreak
doctor to a patient needing to lose weight: “If it tastes good, spit it out.”
I love receiving anecdotes and sayings from readers and save them in case the right moment comes to fit them in. It’s quite true that “You’re never safe around a writer,” in the sense that all the turnings of the world are always potential material. But please relax around me. You are perfectly safe because I—and most writers, I believe—change or veil reality to try and ensure that no one ever feels exploited or suffers in any way when their lives become material.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Friday, January 7, 2011
I ♥ Feedback, Negative or Positive
Readers’ responses to my books are treasures! Positive comments are encouraging, and if they’re well-written they’re likely to wind up on my Website or promotional pieces. Negative comments probably won’t be used for publicity (though I’m fixin’ to put some in my blog right now!), but I am happy to receive them for they help me grow as a writer. Four seminary professors have provided feedback, both positive and negative. Here are some of their comments and how they helped me.
The earliest of these appraisals came just in the nick of time from Laurence Hull Stookey, Professor Emeritus of Preaching and Worship at Wesley Theological. Dr. Stookey had been described to me as the guru of liturgy and worship in the United Methodist Church. One of his books, Calendar, Christ’s Time for the Church, was a great resource as I wrote Sunday by Sunday I; in fact, I quoted it at the beginning of the book. I had placed a courtesy call to him at the seminary to thank him for his book and tell him about the quotation and was surprised when he came on the line. We had a friendly conversation and when he said that my book sounded interesting, I summoned all the Lutheran chutzpah I had in me and asked if he might have time to review the manuscript and consider writing an endorsement. He said yes! I was elated. Important information: At that point, the title of the book was Sabbath by Sabbath. So, Stookey’s fabulous, affirming blurb arrived pretty much at press time. In a note he said, “Thank you for a good book. I would be even happier if it were called…Sunday by Sunday. The Seventh-day Adventists are right at one point which many of our Protestant Reformer forebears got wrong. 'Sabbath' means seventh and refers always to Saturday. Its appropriation by Christians creates great confusion.” I had lived with Sabbath by Sabbath for several years and liked the music of the words, but I immediately went online and discovered that there was, indeed, a war raging in Christendom over the use of the term “Sabbath.” Not wanting to get in the middle of that war, I emailed my graphic designer at 10 o’clock that night to re-do the cover, using the title Sunday by Sunday. Whew. I still feel “saved by the bell” with that critique!
Ginger Barfield, currently Academic Dean at Lutheran Theological Southern Seminary (LTSS), was on the faculty there in New Testament when she wrote the foreword for S by S I. Her foreword artfully provided many reader hooks. I especially appreciated her saying to the reader--more often than not a church person--“You will find something in this book that resonates within you.” She did, however, surprise me when she described the main character’s family as dysfunctional. Hmm. I decided that dimension might give the work a special appeal, since it seems fashionable these days to admit to a certain level of dysfunction in our families. (Realistic, too, I suppose.) And her comment also encouraged me to monitor closely the level of kooky and/or unhealthy interactions in Rose’s family and weave that dynamic effectively into the narrative. I am satisfied that the quality of the subsequent books has been strengthened by her input.
Another LTSS professor, Charles Sigel, Emeritus Professor of New Testament studies, provided me two full sheets of feedback after reading the first book; I treasure his thoughts. He started with the positive, and here is an excerpt: “I marvel at the number of situations you have been able to create and the number of issues on which you touch as Rose moves through the church year. The foibles, frailties, fractures and frivolities of life in a local congregation are an [other] area where I believe you have captured the essence of what ‘church’ (I mean REAL CHURCH) is all about.” But then, he said that, while he was moved at first by emotional scenes, the amount of weeping, crying, and gnashing of teeth became excessive. He used the word lugubrious. Upon reflection, I agreed with him. You can bet that human activity of this type is moderated in books two and three, and therefore, when someone is distraught, I hope, the scene is more effective. He also noted that I had identified ‘anawim’ as a Greek word when it is Hebrew. Don’t worry, he advised graciously; Rose is a laywoman who wouldn’t be expected to get such things right—but I sure wish I had. For all your counsel, many thanks, Charlie Sigel!
Lastly, is a response from Carl Ficken, also Emeritus Professor of Theology and Culture at LTSS and a Ph. D. in American Literature as well. He has read both books. I am deeply gratified that he “enjoyed them, appreciated the connections with the lectionary, the introduction to a faithful ‘church lady,’ and the thoughtful reflection on so many dimensions of life.” He thinks that I “have invented a new genre: part journal, part fictional narrative, part spiritual discipline, part theological and Biblical interpretation.” Perhaps that “new genre” element is the reason I’ve not yet been successful in finding a publisher or agent, for the Sunday by Sunday series does not fit neatly into a category. In my on-going survey of church fiction, I’ve not found anything quite like it. Thank you for that insight, Carl Ficken, which I choose to see as a compliment, if not an advantage.
More reader feedback is posted at http://www.sundaybysunday.com/
The earliest of these appraisals came just in the nick of time from Laurence Hull Stookey, Professor Emeritus of Preaching and Worship at Wesley Theological. Dr. Stookey had been described to me as the guru of liturgy and worship in the United Methodist Church. One of his books, Calendar, Christ’s Time for the Church, was a great resource as I wrote Sunday by Sunday I; in fact, I quoted it at the beginning of the book. I had placed a courtesy call to him at the seminary to thank him for his book and tell him about the quotation and was surprised when he came on the line. We had a friendly conversation and when he said that my book sounded interesting, I summoned all the Lutheran chutzpah I had in me and asked if he might have time to review the manuscript and consider writing an endorsement. He said yes! I was elated. Important information: At that point, the title of the book was Sabbath by Sabbath. So, Stookey’s fabulous, affirming blurb arrived pretty much at press time. In a note he said, “Thank you for a good book. I would be even happier if it were called…Sunday by Sunday. The Seventh-day Adventists are right at one point which many of our Protestant Reformer forebears got wrong. 'Sabbath' means seventh and refers always to Saturday. Its appropriation by Christians creates great confusion.” I had lived with Sabbath by Sabbath for several years and liked the music of the words, but I immediately went online and discovered that there was, indeed, a war raging in Christendom over the use of the term “Sabbath.” Not wanting to get in the middle of that war, I emailed my graphic designer at 10 o’clock that night to re-do the cover, using the title Sunday by Sunday. Whew. I still feel “saved by the bell” with that critique!
Ginger Barfield, currently Academic Dean at Lutheran Theological Southern Seminary (LTSS), was on the faculty there in New Testament when she wrote the foreword for S by S I. Her foreword artfully provided many reader hooks. I especially appreciated her saying to the reader--more often than not a church person--“You will find something in this book that resonates within you.” She did, however, surprise me when she described the main character’s family as dysfunctional. Hmm. I decided that dimension might give the work a special appeal, since it seems fashionable these days to admit to a certain level of dysfunction in our families. (Realistic, too, I suppose.) And her comment also encouraged me to monitor closely the level of kooky and/or unhealthy interactions in Rose’s family and weave that dynamic effectively into the narrative. I am satisfied that the quality of the subsequent books has been strengthened by her input.
Another LTSS professor, Charles Sigel, Emeritus Professor of New Testament studies, provided me two full sheets of feedback after reading the first book; I treasure his thoughts. He started with the positive, and here is an excerpt: “I marvel at the number of situations you have been able to create and the number of issues on which you touch as Rose moves through the church year. The foibles, frailties, fractures and frivolities of life in a local congregation are an [other] area where I believe you have captured the essence of what ‘church’ (I mean REAL CHURCH) is all about.” But then, he said that, while he was moved at first by emotional scenes, the amount of weeping, crying, and gnashing of teeth became excessive. He used the word lugubrious. Upon reflection, I agreed with him. You can bet that human activity of this type is moderated in books two and three, and therefore, when someone is distraught, I hope, the scene is more effective. He also noted that I had identified ‘anawim’ as a Greek word when it is Hebrew. Don’t worry, he advised graciously; Rose is a laywoman who wouldn’t be expected to get such things right—but I sure wish I had. For all your counsel, many thanks, Charlie Sigel!
Lastly, is a response from Carl Ficken, also Emeritus Professor of Theology and Culture at LTSS and a Ph. D. in American Literature as well. He has read both books. I am deeply gratified that he “enjoyed them, appreciated the connections with the lectionary, the introduction to a faithful ‘church lady,’ and the thoughtful reflection on so many dimensions of life.” He thinks that I “have invented a new genre: part journal, part fictional narrative, part spiritual discipline, part theological and Biblical interpretation.” Perhaps that “new genre” element is the reason I’ve not yet been successful in finding a publisher or agent, for the Sunday by Sunday series does not fit neatly into a category. In my on-going survey of church fiction, I’ve not found anything quite like it. Thank you for that insight, Carl Ficken, which I choose to see as a compliment, if not an advantage.
More reader feedback is posted at http://www.sundaybysunday.com/
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Will I or will I not drive in the snow today? My 20th Final Decision
Snow in Columbia again! I saw it in the wee hours of the morning, my backyard lighted up by moonlight shining on the white sparkly blanket covering everything. The sight did not deter me in the least regarding my plans for the approaching day—worship and hanging out with a friend who is under the weather (couldn’t resist that cliché). So, I got right up when the alarm sounded, despite grogginess from the eating, drinking merriment of Christmas. Yesterday was filled with fun and wonder with special guests and family including three grandsons, ages 1 ½, 3 ½ and 5 ½, a recipe for adorable cuteness (okay, yes, and a few other moments, too). Anyway, the celebration had taken its toll, but I was, nevertheless, on track.
The track began to curve when I glanced out the window to see snow still coming down. Settled with my coffee at the computer, I serendipitously found energy for working on Sunday by Sunday III for a bit. The harder I worked, the heavier the snow seemed to fall. There were few cars on the road, and whispers began circulating in my brain about staying home.
But, then an e-mail from church announced that the “show was on; don’t be scared off by the weather.” Remembering how special it is when there is a small congregation of the faithful few, I wanted to be there. Plus, the gospel lesson included the slaying of the holy innocents. I’m always curious, if not desperate, to hear what good purpose that horrendous story can serve for the building up of faith.
So, I watched the clock to make sure I left in plenty of time—and started worrying about road conditions. To check on that, I found my boots and winter wraps and ventured out. I headed into the park next door, an icy breeze blowing large tufts of snow into my face. I opened my mouth, hoping to catch a few, and thought of our pup Scout seeing her first snow years ago. At first, she was startled and suspicious, but was soon leaping in the air, snapping at the clusters of flakes. Fond memory.
In the park, a couple was sledding and a guy was taking pictures. The only other person I saw walking was dressed in a parka and sipping a beverage out of a plastic bag from Li’l Cricket Gas and Convenience. Making the circle to head home, I turned around a few times to peer down Main Street through the snow and wintry grayness to see if I could spot the state capital. I could, barely; that was cool. There was little traffic, but, as I expected, roads were perfectly clear; there was no reason not to go. Except that now, getting back to my warm house and holing up seemed like the ideal thing to do. This is South Carolina, after all, and any amount of snow is an acceptable excuse for canceling anything, so…
So, here I sit writing, feeling very cozy and rather wimpy—and utterly forgiven for acts of wimpiness and sins of omission and comission. In a few minutes, I’ll heat up leftovers I brought home last night—the richest mashed potatoes you can imagine, broccoli and red peppers with Kalimata olives and feta, stuffed mushrooms. Oh my, oh yum. And now, off to two (of many) lovely sabbath activities that await: a call to Mom and the Sunday paper. Amen!
The track began to curve when I glanced out the window to see snow still coming down. Settled with my coffee at the computer, I serendipitously found energy for working on Sunday by Sunday III for a bit. The harder I worked, the heavier the snow seemed to fall. There were few cars on the road, and whispers began circulating in my brain about staying home.
But, then an e-mail from church announced that the “show was on; don’t be scared off by the weather.” Remembering how special it is when there is a small congregation of the faithful few, I wanted to be there. Plus, the gospel lesson included the slaying of the holy innocents. I’m always curious, if not desperate, to hear what good purpose that horrendous story can serve for the building up of faith.
So, I watched the clock to make sure I left in plenty of time—and started worrying about road conditions. To check on that, I found my boots and winter wraps and ventured out. I headed into the park next door, an icy breeze blowing large tufts of snow into my face. I opened my mouth, hoping to catch a few, and thought of our pup Scout seeing her first snow years ago. At first, she was startled and suspicious, but was soon leaping in the air, snapping at the clusters of flakes. Fond memory.
In the park, a couple was sledding and a guy was taking pictures. The only other person I saw walking was dressed in a parka and sipping a beverage out of a plastic bag from Li’l Cricket Gas and Convenience. Making the circle to head home, I turned around a few times to peer down Main Street through the snow and wintry grayness to see if I could spot the state capital. I could, barely; that was cool. There was little traffic, but, as I expected, roads were perfectly clear; there was no reason not to go. Except that now, getting back to my warm house and holing up seemed like the ideal thing to do. This is South Carolina, after all, and any amount of snow is an acceptable excuse for canceling anything, so…
So, here I sit writing, feeling very cozy and rather wimpy—and utterly forgiven for acts of wimpiness and sins of omission and comission. In a few minutes, I’ll heat up leftovers I brought home last night—the richest mashed potatoes you can imagine, broccoli and red peppers with Kalimata olives and feta, stuffed mushrooms. Oh my, oh yum. And now, off to two (of many) lovely sabbath activities that await: a call to Mom and the Sunday paper. Amen!
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
I Am a Myth-led Christian
If I, as a devout Christian, were to dialogue with the folks who put up the atheist billboard at the end of the Lincoln Tunnel in New York City I would focus on the word myth. The billboard, as you probably know, pictures a classic scene of the Nativity of Our Lord, and has the caption, “You KNOW it’s a myth. This Season, Celebrate REASON!”
Yes, I would say, Christianity is based in stories with some historical basis passed on over millennia by a community of people to explain and preserve a set of beliefs and a way of life. This is an alternative definition of the term, something much different from a purely fictional story. And I would share my favorite definition of myth, stated by a young child: “A myth is a story that’s true on the inside but not always on the outside.”
Another important point I would want to make—one of those points that seems that it should go without saying but, alas, must be said—is that there is a wide diversity among those of us who identify ourselves as Christians. For the most part, the Christians I hang out with in the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America respect deeply the beliefs and non-beliefs of others. Our understanding of God does not lead us to condemn others, but rather, to love one another. Many Christian billboards cause me to cringe. The fact is, I am more comfortable with kind, friendly atheists than self-righteous Christians who are sure they have all the answers.
I would most certainly share with my fellow human beings who cannot make sense out of God that sense is not the most important aspect of faith—though logic and reason figure in. We do not check our brains at the door of the church and science is no adversary of our God. To find meaning in life and death and life again, we value both mystery and knowledge, both emotion and intellect. Our life together is reasoned and disciplined, and yet, our practices help us move beyond reason. Barbara Crafton, Episcopal clergy, expresses this well: “Liturgy is the recapturing of something that once happened, bringing it alive again and amplifying its meaning in the present moment. Sacraments are not rational occurrences, and they cannot be reduced to reasonable explanation. It is one of the saddest parts of being rational beings, this sterile insistence of ours that everything make sense, our grumpy suspicion of mystery.”
Those would be a few of my main points. And I would listen. I would want to know how they’re faring on this terrestrial ball with its vicissitudes of life. I would learn from them, I am sure, and we would discover common ground. These speculations are based on dialogues I am privileged to enter into frequently.
And I would desire civility and mutual respect in our conversation. I’ve been cruising the Internet, reviewing dialogue between atheists and Christians on billboards and other matters. Clever terms and phrases have made me smile and even laugh out loud, but I was, ultimately, sad at the animosity exhibited. Terms like “religiotards” and “kool-aid drinkers” and descriptions like “your illogical, irrational, Bronze-Age belief system” don’t create a comfort zone for sharing differences and finding likenesses. Neither do patronizing, condescending attitudes displayed by Christians towards those who don’t believe the way they do.
In my Sunday by Sunday series, relationship between Christians and atheists is incarnated in the characters of Rose, inveterate church lady, and Jim, her non-believing neighbor. Dialogue isn’t always easy for these two. With determination and mutual respect, however, they maintain civility and focus on values and beliefs they share. Therein lies human connection which seems sure to align well with the purposes of a loving God—and with an ordered universe.
Yes, I would say, Christianity is based in stories with some historical basis passed on over millennia by a community of people to explain and preserve a set of beliefs and a way of life. This is an alternative definition of the term, something much different from a purely fictional story. And I would share my favorite definition of myth, stated by a young child: “A myth is a story that’s true on the inside but not always on the outside.”
Another important point I would want to make—one of those points that seems that it should go without saying but, alas, must be said—is that there is a wide diversity among those of us who identify ourselves as Christians. For the most part, the Christians I hang out with in the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America respect deeply the beliefs and non-beliefs of others. Our understanding of God does not lead us to condemn others, but rather, to love one another. Many Christian billboards cause me to cringe. The fact is, I am more comfortable with kind, friendly atheists than self-righteous Christians who are sure they have all the answers.
I would most certainly share with my fellow human beings who cannot make sense out of God that sense is not the most important aspect of faith—though logic and reason figure in. We do not check our brains at the door of the church and science is no adversary of our God. To find meaning in life and death and life again, we value both mystery and knowledge, both emotion and intellect. Our life together is reasoned and disciplined, and yet, our practices help us move beyond reason. Barbara Crafton, Episcopal clergy, expresses this well: “Liturgy is the recapturing of something that once happened, bringing it alive again and amplifying its meaning in the present moment. Sacraments are not rational occurrences, and they cannot be reduced to reasonable explanation. It is one of the saddest parts of being rational beings, this sterile insistence of ours that everything make sense, our grumpy suspicion of mystery.”
Those would be a few of my main points. And I would listen. I would want to know how they’re faring on this terrestrial ball with its vicissitudes of life. I would learn from them, I am sure, and we would discover common ground. These speculations are based on dialogues I am privileged to enter into frequently.
And I would desire civility and mutual respect in our conversation. I’ve been cruising the Internet, reviewing dialogue between atheists and Christians on billboards and other matters. Clever terms and phrases have made me smile and even laugh out loud, but I was, ultimately, sad at the animosity exhibited. Terms like “religiotards” and “kool-aid drinkers” and descriptions like “your illogical, irrational, Bronze-Age belief system” don’t create a comfort zone for sharing differences and finding likenesses. Neither do patronizing, condescending attitudes displayed by Christians towards those who don’t believe the way they do.
In my Sunday by Sunday series, relationship between Christians and atheists is incarnated in the characters of Rose, inveterate church lady, and Jim, her non-believing neighbor. Dialogue isn’t always easy for these two. With determination and mutual respect, however, they maintain civility and focus on values and beliefs they share. Therein lies human connection which seems sure to align well with the purposes of a loving God—and with an ordered universe.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Poetry from Long Ago
In the fall of 1984, my youngest child started school, and I wrote a volume of poetry. ‘Twas a major life passage for me. Intent on the pursuit of serious writing, I bought a ream of paper and a box of 9 X 12 envelopes and outfitted space on the narrow balcony of our little house in the woods. With an old electric typewriter from a friend, I settled in at my desk, a dressing table sans mirror, for the disciplined writing life. I knew enough to write about what I knew, and one product of those four months before my re-entry into the labor market was Spinning with the Spiders, poems about being a full-time mother and homemaker.
The title poem (below), first-written, has remained my favorite and was also well-received in open reading at a Tennessee Mountain Writer’s Conference years ago, seeming to have broad appeal on the basis of the futility of our efforts. That futility is the obvious theme of “Holy House,” (for the rest of the poems, click here) and its popularity amazed me. By audience request, I performed it several times at that same conference. During a session with a teacher of poetry at another workshop, however, “Holy House” was panned entirely, and I was admonished that inanimate objects cannot take on animate qualities, such as a rug being tired. That teacher seemed to be in no mood for light verse.
Spinning with the Spiders is definitely light verse, a glint in my eye and my tongue firmly planted in my cheek. Yet there is substance, I insist. At the Iowa Summer Writing Festival, I studied with Jane Mead and offered “Pristine Christine” as my poem for group critique. Teacher and participants fairly well dismissed it as insubstantial at first, but then asked me to say it again—and again—and again. The resulting discussion was rich with insight for me, and affirmation, too, complete with suggestions for improvement.
Anyway, the poems were fun to write and are fun, still, for me to hear. I’ve committed them to memory and enjoy reciting them while driving or waiting or—doing housework, of course!
Spinning with the Spiders
Spiders spin splendid webs at my house
and I am the cleaning lady
who doesn’t much like cleaning
but does it anyway,
when she can, when she must,
when the dust and spider webs
seem hazardous to health
and floors are gritty to the touch of naked soles;
and if a friend dropped in, especially Pristine Christine,
embarrassment would get me;
and it’s amazing how many spiders
there are in the world
and how many of them live at my house
and how speedy those spiders are,
and they spin and I spin my wheels
because I don’t much like cleaning;
but, on one special, gray morning
I swept the cobwebs from my eyes
and from my house
and the next day
the smirking spiders
had re-spun every one.
Copyright © 2010 Cristy C. Fossum. Create in Me Enterprises, 1215 Beaufort St., Columbia, South Carolina 29201. May not be reproduced or transmitted in any form whatsoever without prior written permission from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
The title poem (below), first-written, has remained my favorite and was also well-received in open reading at a Tennessee Mountain Writer’s Conference years ago, seeming to have broad appeal on the basis of the futility of our efforts. That futility is the obvious theme of “Holy House,” (for the rest of the poems, click here) and its popularity amazed me. By audience request, I performed it several times at that same conference. During a session with a teacher of poetry at another workshop, however, “Holy House” was panned entirely, and I was admonished that inanimate objects cannot take on animate qualities, such as a rug being tired. That teacher seemed to be in no mood for light verse.
Spinning with the Spiders is definitely light verse, a glint in my eye and my tongue firmly planted in my cheek. Yet there is substance, I insist. At the Iowa Summer Writing Festival, I studied with Jane Mead and offered “Pristine Christine” as my poem for group critique. Teacher and participants fairly well dismissed it as insubstantial at first, but then asked me to say it again—and again—and again. The resulting discussion was rich with insight for me, and affirmation, too, complete with suggestions for improvement.
Anyway, the poems were fun to write and are fun, still, for me to hear. I’ve committed them to memory and enjoy reciting them while driving or waiting or—doing housework, of course!
Spinning with the Spiders
Spiders spin splendid webs at my house
and I am the cleaning lady
who doesn’t much like cleaning
but does it anyway,
when she can, when she must,
when the dust and spider webs
seem hazardous to health
and floors are gritty to the touch of naked soles;
and if a friend dropped in, especially Pristine Christine,
embarrassment would get me;
and it’s amazing how many spiders
there are in the world
and how many of them live at my house
and how speedy those spiders are,
and they spin and I spin my wheels
because I don’t much like cleaning;
but, on one special, gray morning
I swept the cobwebs from my eyes
and from my house
and the next day
the smirking spiders
had re-spun every one.
Copyright © 2010 Cristy C. Fossum. Create in Me Enterprises, 1215 Beaufort St., Columbia, South Carolina 29201. May not be reproduced or transmitted in any form whatsoever without prior written permission from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
A Quiet Place to Write
I have a quiet place to write. This has not always been true. Last fall, new people moved into one side of the duplex next door. Sorry to say, their six-month tenure was a time of insecurity and stress on our street. And noise.
I had extended my hand in welcome as the new tenants were moving their furniture. A few days later, I think it was Christmas Day, they had an altercation with family members. Obscene language was shouted and screamed from front porch to the car in the driveway for several minutes. Startling. Offensive. Scary.
Soon, the other neighbors and I had the appropriate police contact number on our speed dial and were hitting it frequently, at all times of the day and night, because of similar incidents disturbing our peace. I heard drug deals gone bad outside my dining room window and encountered the troubled tenants in various conditions altered by drugs and alcohol. Items began disappearing from outside people’s houses. I hesitated to have my grandchildren come and visit.
We banded together, working with our neighborhood organization and the law enforcement officer assigned to our area. We persisted in our efforts until the tenants were evicted. Once again, our street was pleasant and safe. And quiet.
This restoration of peace coincided with my return to writing as a full-time job on July 1. For the year previous, I had taught special education at a cyber high school, Provost Academy South Carolina. That was a year with a steep learning curve for me and challenges unique from all my other experiences in public education. ‘Twas a great adventure, but my major disappointment was that the professional demands were not compatible with serious writing. Evenings, weekends and summer break were largely taken up with school commitments. The progress I had hoped to make on book three of my Sunday by Sunday series was impossible. I was pleased, therefore, not to renew my contract so that I could pursue my passion.
And so, I write now, not only with quiet around me but also within. What a lucky duck I am to have this opportunity! Deeply grateful, I am determined to reach my goal, always, I hope, under the guidance of the Holy Spirit. The agony and ecstasy of the writing life are, well, agonizing and ecstatic at times, though mostly in between those two extremes—in other words, lifelike. So, here I be in my office, at least five days a week, hard at work composing and revising, serene and thankful, despite the challenges. Yeehaw!
Sunday, August 29, 2010
How I Write #1 -- Schedule
I was stumped for a moment during a presentation I was making when someone asked me that question about writing discipline/methodology/schedule. “How do you write?” the question begins. “Do you have a daily schedule or goal? Do you outline first?” etc. I didn’t have a ready answer because my writing discipline includes many approaches. “I don’t know,” I groaned. “I just know that somehow, eventually, the book gets written.”Upon further reflection, however, I can be more specific than that. Here are some thoughts on schedule:
The best writing days begin around 8:30am. I write through lunch, and end between 2 and 4 in the afternoon. When I’m really humming along, I will leave the chair frequently and engage in a mindless task to stimulate thought. For example, yesterday I was composing and decided that a character would have a dream. Great idea. Felt right. But what would she dream? Ups-a-daisy, outside to a flower bed to pluck weeds. Five minutes and eight mosquito bites later, the dream piece took shape in my mind. During these moments, I talk things through, put words in the character's mouth, and might even laugh or cry at the ideas that surface. My brain is somehow set free to spark in a way that wasn’t happening just a-sittin’ and a- thinkin’.
The worst writing days are filled with ennui—irrational weariness, dissatisfaction, disinterest. My innate sense of inadequacy comes to the fore, manifesting in thoughts like, “Nobody cares whether I ever finish the book anyway,” and “Who would even want to read this junk?” I fret and putter, and my motto becomes “Keep moving,” a takeaway from a writing workshop brainstorm about what to do at such times. Can’t find the right beginning for the chapter? Skip to another section and write that paragraph/incident. No traction at all on composition? Dig into research. Computer coming down with a virus and moving too s-l-o-w-l-y for research? Flesh out sketches of characters getting ready to enter the story. If I keep moving and don’t give myself over to the funky mood, I can usually accomplish something of value, albeit without enthusiasm.
I admit, also, that I sometimes go to bed and pull the covers over my head, maybe just for a few minutes, maybe for an hour or two. Cocooning myself seems to restore creative energy. And on rare occasions, I have defeated the ennui by giving into it, abandoning the writing task altogether and spending time with kids and grandkids or immersing myself in household tasks. Such radical action is, for me, a statement of faith. Once I wade through a metaphorical pool of guilt up to my neck, giving in is most liberating. Serenity comes, based in a deep trust that this momentary lull will not scuttle the project. All is well.
The best writing days begin around 8:30am. I write through lunch, and end between 2 and 4 in the afternoon. When I’m really humming along, I will leave the chair frequently and engage in a mindless task to stimulate thought. For example, yesterday I was composing and decided that a character would have a dream. Great idea. Felt right. But what would she dream? Ups-a-daisy, outside to a flower bed to pluck weeds. Five minutes and eight mosquito bites later, the dream piece took shape in my mind. During these moments, I talk things through, put words in the character's mouth, and might even laugh or cry at the ideas that surface. My brain is somehow set free to spark in a way that wasn’t happening just a-sittin’ and a- thinkin’.
The worst writing days are filled with ennui—irrational weariness, dissatisfaction, disinterest. My innate sense of inadequacy comes to the fore, manifesting in thoughts like, “Nobody cares whether I ever finish the book anyway,” and “Who would even want to read this junk?” I fret and putter, and my motto becomes “Keep moving,” a takeaway from a writing workshop brainstorm about what to do at such times. Can’t find the right beginning for the chapter? Skip to another section and write that paragraph/incident. No traction at all on composition? Dig into research. Computer coming down with a virus and moving too s-l-o-w-l-y for research? Flesh out sketches of characters getting ready to enter the story. If I keep moving and don’t give myself over to the funky mood, I can usually accomplish something of value, albeit without enthusiasm.
I admit, also, that I sometimes go to bed and pull the covers over my head, maybe just for a few minutes, maybe for an hour or two. Cocooning myself seems to restore creative energy. And on rare occasions, I have defeated the ennui by giving into it, abandoning the writing task altogether and spending time with kids and grandkids or immersing myself in household tasks. Such radical action is, for me, a statement of faith. Once I wade through a metaphorical pool of guilt up to my neck, giving in is most liberating. Serenity comes, based in a deep trust that this momentary lull will not scuttle the project. All is well.
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