#295 FRIENDS AND FANCIES
by Bob Moreland
Arliss and I, along with about 25 others, were privileged to attend Ted Kooser’s writing workshop at the Valentine High School on Saturday, April 25. Ted has the honor of having been the National Poet Laureate and a Pulitzer Prize Winner. He is a friend of Bill and Anne Quigley (local librarian) and donated the proceeds of the workshop to the Valentine Library. Ted is a modest person with a dedication to encourage people to write. Here are some of his suggestions, requests and advice:
“Don’t plan to write a book!
To plan an entire book is a huge project, and can be insurmountable. Instead, write a little every day and don’t worry about whether it will become a book, or what that book will be like when it is finished. It will never be finished if you think of things like that.
“Write 100 words a day!
Write just 100 words a day (or 200, or some limit you think you can easily reach day after day after day). If you have more to say after the limit you set, resist the urge to write more. Then you’ll always have something to start with the next day.
“Don’t fuss with equipment!
Don’t spend valuable time getting prepared. You don’t have to sharpen a dozen pencils and get just the right kind of paper or buy a new desk, or a new house with a new desk in it. Get to the work! All that other stuff is just procrastination.
“Write to and for a reader!
It can be very helpful to have an imaginary reader in mind., and to write to that reader as if you were just writing a letter. This will keep your writing natural and conversational.
“Write scenes, not sequences!
Memories come to us as vivid scenes, so describe those scenes that occur to you, not in any chronological order. Then, later, you can arrange those scenes in an order you like.
“Write first, revise later!
Don’t hover over every word you write. Sure, it’s a good thing to try to write clearly and well, but if you labor over every choice you’ll never get your day’s work done. You can always polish your writing later, preferably after enough time that what you’ve written seems as if a stranger had written it. At that time, you can really see what needs to be changed.”
*************
Sheets were passed out entitled, “First Impressions.” On them were openings on the memoirs of selected authors. Each of us was designated a different one to read and evaluate with comments. It was to show the personality differences of every writer and to show the value of a strong opening.
After we consumed our sack lunches the last feature of the four- hour session was a 20- minute period in which we were to write a vivid childhood memory. Mine concerned riding horseback five miles to country school. I couldn’t read my writing and fouled up royally in my presentation. Arliss didn’t volunteer to read hers. I didn’t even know what it was about and just now found it with the other information about the workshop. She, with hesitation, is allowing me to share it:
“The most important fact in our home that hot, windy August day was that our mother was sick in bed. That in itself was serious because it was unusual. My mother was always up and kept the household humming. It led to an EVENT: The doctor came the six miles by car to our country home to see her.
“No other family member but my father was in the room except me, at four years of age, being small, quiet and therefore unnoticed in the terrible tension- filled moments of the doctor’s examination of my mother. Their voices moved above me in questions and answers and it seemed to me there was empathy between the doctor and my mother, the small patient in the bed. My father spoke in desperately hopeful words about her imminent recovery, as soon as frost came, as soon as the dust-filled hot winds abated so her lungs would be cleared of that dreaded illness: pneumonia. His words were loud in that still room.
“Turning, as if awakening from sleep, he saw me and ordered, “You two little kids go on outside.” Marion, my younger sister and the baby of the family was not in the room but I was her unofficial baby sitter.
“It was hot outside and we usually spent the hottest part of the day indoors. Thinking of that, Daddy continued, “You can play in the car.” Amazing! One thing we were never allowed to do was to be in the car unattended. My heart leaped with joy at this unexpected delight, followed by great concern leaving my mother sick in bed and guilt at feeling happy when she was so sick.
“Obedient child that I was, I immediately went out to find Marion waiting beside the closed door and told her the good news. We went out and carefully got in the car, with me in the driver’s seat on my knees so I could see out and Marion standing beside me. As we played, I kept an eye on the door and on the window I knew was beside my mother’s bed. Leaning against it was a frame covered with gunny sacks which was kept wet to screen out the dust and help to cool the room for my mother.
“Playing had already begun to pall and I was wishing we could go back to the house when the door opened and Daddy came out. He opened the door and reached in for us. His eyes were red- rimmed and somehow terrible as he put his arms around us both and said, “Kids, your mother is dead.” Even his normally comforting embrace was no defense against that horrible truth. The words reverberate in my memory to this day. They are forever locked in that scorching hot, windy, dusty air—the worst, most traumatic day of my life.” Arliss Moreland
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
by Bob Moreland
Arliss and I, along with about 25 others, were privileged to attend Ted Kooser’s writing workshop at the Valentine High School on Saturday, April 25. Ted has the honor of having been the National Poet Laureate and a Pulitzer Prize Winner. He is a friend of Bill and Anne Quigley (local librarian) and donated the proceeds of the workshop to the Valentine Library. Ted is a modest person with a dedication to encourage people to write. Here are some of his suggestions, requests and advice:
“Don’t plan to write a book!
To plan an entire book is a huge project, and can be insurmountable. Instead, write a little every day and don’t worry about whether it will become a book, or what that book will be like when it is finished. It will never be finished if you think of things like that.
“Write 100 words a day!
Write just 100 words a day (or 200, or some limit you think you can easily reach day after day after day). If you have more to say after the limit you set, resist the urge to write more. Then you’ll always have something to start with the next day.
“Don’t fuss with equipment!
Don’t spend valuable time getting prepared. You don’t have to sharpen a dozen pencils and get just the right kind of paper or buy a new desk, or a new house with a new desk in it. Get to the work! All that other stuff is just procrastination.
“Write to and for a reader!
It can be very helpful to have an imaginary reader in mind., and to write to that reader as if you were just writing a letter. This will keep your writing natural and conversational.
“Write scenes, not sequences!
Memories come to us as vivid scenes, so describe those scenes that occur to you, not in any chronological order. Then, later, you can arrange those scenes in an order you like.
“Write first, revise later!
Don’t hover over every word you write. Sure, it’s a good thing to try to write clearly and well, but if you labor over every choice you’ll never get your day’s work done. You can always polish your writing later, preferably after enough time that what you’ve written seems as if a stranger had written it. At that time, you can really see what needs to be changed.”
*************
Sheets were passed out entitled, “First Impressions.” On them were openings on the memoirs of selected authors. Each of us was designated a different one to read and evaluate with comments. It was to show the personality differences of every writer and to show the value of a strong opening.
After we consumed our sack lunches the last feature of the four- hour session was a 20- minute period in which we were to write a vivid childhood memory. Mine concerned riding horseback five miles to country school. I couldn’t read my writing and fouled up royally in my presentation. Arliss didn’t volunteer to read hers. I didn’t even know what it was about and just now found it with the other information about the workshop. She, with hesitation, is allowing me to share it:
“The most important fact in our home that hot, windy August day was that our mother was sick in bed. That in itself was serious because it was unusual. My mother was always up and kept the household humming. It led to an EVENT: The doctor came the six miles by car to our country home to see her.
“No other family member but my father was in the room except me, at four years of age, being small, quiet and therefore unnoticed in the terrible tension- filled moments of the doctor’s examination of my mother. Their voices moved above me in questions and answers and it seemed to me there was empathy between the doctor and my mother, the small patient in the bed. My father spoke in desperately hopeful words about her imminent recovery, as soon as frost came, as soon as the dust-filled hot winds abated so her lungs would be cleared of that dreaded illness: pneumonia. His words were loud in that still room.
“Turning, as if awakening from sleep, he saw me and ordered, “You two little kids go on outside.” Marion, my younger sister and the baby of the family was not in the room but I was her unofficial baby sitter.
“It was hot outside and we usually spent the hottest part of the day indoors. Thinking of that, Daddy continued, “You can play in the car.” Amazing! One thing we were never allowed to do was to be in the car unattended. My heart leaped with joy at this unexpected delight, followed by great concern leaving my mother sick in bed and guilt at feeling happy when she was so sick.
“Obedient child that I was, I immediately went out to find Marion waiting beside the closed door and told her the good news. We went out and carefully got in the car, with me in the driver’s seat on my knees so I could see out and Marion standing beside me. As we played, I kept an eye on the door and on the window I knew was beside my mother’s bed. Leaning against it was a frame covered with gunny sacks which was kept wet to screen out the dust and help to cool the room for my mother.
“Playing had already begun to pall and I was wishing we could go back to the house when the door opened and Daddy came out. He opened the door and reached in for us. His eyes were red- rimmed and somehow terrible as he put his arms around us both and said, “Kids, your mother is dead.” Even his normally comforting embrace was no defense against that horrible truth. The words reverberate in my memory to this day. They are forever locked in that scorching hot, windy, dusty air—the worst, most traumatic day of my life.” Arliss Moreland
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------