Blogging for the last time.

As I write this last blog entry, and this will be my last, I consider all that I have learned from this experience and this class. I feel that classes such as these are designed not only to introduce us to some theory and other points of view, but to get our creative juices flowing. I have been in other classes that have also done so, but never one solely designed to examine the act and art of creating. So it behooves me to list the ideas that I gleaned from this class—the good with the bad, the positive with the negative.

1. A writer needs time to write.
I noticed that I am often pressed for time and when asked to produce something “creative” that is not a good thing. It reminds me of a great short story by an author whose name escapes me about an undertaker who told great stories and jokes. Eventually his stories caught the eye of a newspaper which hired him to be a humorist of sorts. Once the man was out of his work situation, he didn’t have contact with humanity as he once did and his source of material dried up.
I always thought I wanted to write, but I now see why some writers go to the remote writer’s colonies and such. It takes time and solitude to reflect and my mind can’t seem to push the constant barrage of my own classroom material aside long enough to reflect.
I dream of taking a summer place that is quiet and remote and typing away all day until I come up with something grand. I so admire those novelists who are also in the work force while they write. Now I understand why Michael Crichton does not practice medicine today, nor Scott Turow or John Grisham practice law. Tom Clancy quit his job in the business industry to write, but only after he was published.

2. Not all classes are conducive to sharing thoughts and ideas.
I have been in some writer’s groups and classrooms that seemed to electric with the flow of creative energy. I found this class to have a few creative outlets—Dr. Cain’s expert writing—she is a published writer and I enjoy reading and learning from her expertise and stories. When the blogs became more personal, it was a way in which to get into the heads of some of my classmates, because we rarely bantered ideas back and forth in the classroom. The peer edits of classmates papers also provided an insight into other ideas.
I miss the forums where we could share our opinions—this forum seemed to me to be a place to reiterate our reading to our professor—good enough. But I wish we had more time to converse in a relaxed “third space.”

3. Going into the unknown.
I seem to be the slowest student when it comes to the uptake of the theory articles that we read in class. Again, time is an issue. If I could just take some time for coffee and discussion, I think I would understand better. I don’t really have enough time to talk with my co-worker, Erin, since the rare moments we can steal from the high school day is spent discussing how the Expository Writing classroom is going. I so enjoyed meeting with a few of my classmates at the coffee house to discuss an article I found particularly dumfounding. Not only did I come away with a new understanding of the material, but I also made a new friend.

4. Blogging can seem like ranting at times.
Enough said.

Blogging in the Eternal Abyss

Ok, I stole that title from some lines in Garden State, but it feels like that here. I sit in a Starbucks in New York City to complete my online blog to my fellow students back home in Indiana. The music is lively, as are the crowds. I offer the extra seats at my table to whomever comes by and stop once and awhile to chat with total strangers. I know that would appall a few of you. I love it when humanity just washes around me as I sit or stand quietly by and take it all in. The first night we were here a well-dressed man from Denmark offered us the unfinished portion of his dinner, as I am sure he could not fathom leaving so much untouched food on his plate. We talked a little about portion size here in America and I made note that he was fit and slim—something that I am not.

Yesterday we went to the half-price ticket booth to see what plays were available. They ALL were and we stood in a terribly-long, but fast-moving line and spoke to the strangers on either side. As we got within a glimpse of the ticket windows, the sight became a little like a feeding-frenzy. But since our hearts were not set on one particular play, and we were willing to see anything, the anxiety of the moment dissipated. It also helps to be 5 foot 11 inches so one can peer above the average-sized crowd. I ask the couple in front of me what they found out from the ticket salesmen, and they answered with a smile. Single seats for Jersey Boys and restricted seating for Chorus Line. No thanks. We asked about Grey Gardens, a musical about the crazy aunt and cousin of Jacqueline Onassis who became even crazier in their latter years. We got the tickets for half price and lollygagged around the streets until the 3:00 showtime.

This musical was quite an unusual one. It told the story of the these famous relatives of Jackie's in two acts--one in 1941 and the second act in 1973. These two women made the newspapters in the 70's when it was discovered that they lived in their 28-room house in the Hamptons with their 52 cats and mountains of empty tin cans as the house sunk even further into disrepair and squalor. The play starts with a beautiful glimpse into the lives of the rich in the 1940’s as young Edie is engaged to Joe Kennedy Jr. The second half is basically a harsh view of two aging spinsters—Edie and her mother as they fail to feed their cats and go to sleep in beds infested with insects. Did I mention that this was a MUSICAL? Yes, one can write anything and have it play on Broadway. But not to worry, remember I am attracted to the dark and depressing, I just didn’t realize you could set that stuff to music. I love New York.

Today we will buy tickets to a comedy or maybe not. Inherit the Wind is playing on Monday, and most of the theaters are dark that day, so one’s choice of plays are limited. I hope to see the Guggenheim Museum of Art today, and if I have time I will write.

If I wrote something and nobody read it, did I really write it?

I sit before my computer once again trying to push out some great thoughts and fascinating syntax. I don’t really have a rhyme or reason to what I am writing, and wouldn’t my students laugh as they saw me stressing over a “free write,” something I assign to them without the slightest hesitation.

So what is my goal in writing a blog? Do I need to write ideas in black and white? What if I am the only one who sees them—does that count for anything? Is my goal to talk to myself? I do find it a humorous and a little significant that the spell-check thinks that when I type the word ‘blog’ I perhaps would like to use the words ‘bloc,’ ‘blot,’ or my favorite ‘blob’ instead.

I have been listening to Me Talk Pretty Some Day by David Sedaris in my car because a.) I am not a big fan of radio music which is mostly loudly-shouted advertisements and b.) I am addicted to listening to other people’s stories of their dysfunctional families. Even Tolstoy started one of his great Russian novels, Anna Karenina, with a quote about discontented families: Since Mr. Sedaris and a bevy of others seem to be publishing books and essays about their own crooked childhoods, why not I? My next goal will be to tell a story about my own family, but here’s a short anecdote for now.

I come from a very competitive family. I was always the oddball, the creative one, the sister who was a little different. To show you how desperate I was to come out first, just once, witness the following: I am the oldest of three sisters. My youngest sister was always the outgoing one. Jan was the class vice-president, the one with the boyfriends. The sister closest to me in age—Helen—was the talented one. She was ranked third from the top in her class for her GPA and she would dominate any and all games that she attempted. Tennis—she made varsity after picking up a racket one summer. Swimming—she was the fastest back-stroker on the team. Cards—I couldn’t even beat her at Go Fish, let alone Canasta.

One night, in our younger years, we had gotten into our pajamas and were getting ready to watch a little TV before our 9:00 bedtime. We all had a chocolate candy bar that we had gotten from our grandmother earlier that day. Candy was a rare treat in a family where the mom is a health food nut and the dad is a diabetic. But this night we were given a dispensation from my grandmother—a woman with a real sweet tooth. I knew the drill, I would usually gobble my chocolate down and be done with it. Jan usually finished hers next with no comments. But Helen was known for eating like a bird, for picking apart the delectable rectangles of the flat brown bar and finishing last as Jan and I looked longingly on. Helen loved to prance around while finishing her treat to tease us. This night was going to be different. I unwrapped the chocolate bar and surreptitiously stuck it into the elastic waistband of my pajamas. I quickly covered it with my pj top and turned to signal that I was finished with the candy treat—mine was all gone.

It seemed like an eternity before Jan and Helen finally finished their snack. Now I could pouch on them, retrieve my candy bar before their envious eyes and finish it off in front of them for once. As I mockingly asked, “Are you guys done already?” I was prepared to lift up my pajama top and reveal my prize and to finally enjoy eating the chocolate. I whipped my top up and to my dismay, the chocolate had melted all over my midsection. Instead of getting the last laugh, I gave them a laugh. Business as usual.

New York in the Spring

Spring break for us Fort Wayne teachers comes in nine more days. I can’t believe it is almost here. This year I am going to visit NYC with a friend of mine, Lora, from school and she is taking me to a Yankees game. I am not a big sports aficionado, but I do know what goes where and why. I learned to appreciate the drama and finesse of an American baseball game while watching the Cubs at Wrigley Field (in Chicago—not the bar) about 15 years ago. A baseball savvy friend sat with me and explained the Zen of it all and I finally got it. So, it’s off to Yankee stadium before they tear the thing down in a year or two. I will finally get to see Lora’s favorite player in person—Derek Jeeter (spelling).

Hopefully we can see some plays, but it doesn’t seem that there is anything new that we haven’t seen already. Wicked, Spamalot, and 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee—done. I noticed that most of the musicals on Broadway are all remakes of something else lately. There is Beauty and the Beast, Lion King, The Color Purple, and even a musical based on Legally Blonde. Looks like someone else is having trouble in the creativity department. I guess we will just head up to the half-price ticket booth and take our chances. I am rarely disappointed when the lights go down and the curtain comes up in a Broadway theater.

One other thing I hope to accomplish is to go back to the Guggenheim Museum of Art. There is always something creative to see there. I remember standing and smiling, maybe even chuckling, at a half-wall sized painting of a mother standing naked in the doorway of her kitchen as she threw to the ground the casserole she had just baked. Her family was seated calmlyand distracted at the dinner table and they seemed not to notice her. A young man of around 25 asked me aloud what I thought was funny. He wasn’t angry, just curious. I said, “You’ve never been a mother, have you?” and we chatted for awhile. (I know, there I go—talking to strangers.) The other "art" (I almost said peice--but you will see why I changed it later) that made quite an impression on me was a Rpbert Maplethorpe black and white photograph of the torso of a man. This black man was dressed in a bright white suit. You could only see him from below his collar to the mid-thigh area. His pants were unzipped and his penis was hanging out (if that is the correct verb.) I was a little worried about my teenage children who were along on this trip. As I made my way down the spiral hallways to the lobby I noticed my husband having a conversation with a couple of the kids and their friends. He was asking what was art anyway? What is creativity? Who decides and who can censor? I thought in my head—I love this guy--and New York.

Telling, not showing

There is fiction in the space between
The lines on your page of memories
Write it down but it doesnt meanYou’re not just telling stories
There is fiction in the space between
You and me

There is fiction in the space between
You and reality
You will do and say anything
To make your everyday life
Seem less mundane
There is fiction in the space between
You and me ---Tracy Chapman


I thought I had finished the revisions on my Paper #1, yet as I drove to work this morning I heard this old Tracy Chapman song. Is this perfect for a discussion about dialectics or what? I always thought the space between my life and reality a little differently. I will do and say anything to make my everyday like seem more mundane. Spoken from a true spaz. My life runs away with the wind and I often yearn for those quiet, dull, mundane nights. No children. No dogs. No house. No worries.

As far as telling these stories…I always feel that my writing does not do my life justice. I have such vivid memories of events and people in my life—but the lines on my page of memories—doesn’t feel complete. It is always too much tell and not enough show. The best thing I found out about the Blog is that there is a delete button, something I plan to hit when this class is over. But for now, some brief insights into stories I could tell.

My father was an pilot in the United States Air Force. The first time I was a passenger in an airplane, my father was doing the driving. That may sound like fun for some, but my dad was also a prankster. He liked to look back over his shoulder and fake an attempt to roll the landing gear down manually while exclaiming, “ I can’t make the wheels come down, what will we do?” Very funny. I am afraid to fly to this day.

There’s more to this story. The summer of my junior year in high school my day bought an RV home and took a month off work. He told us we would be touring the western United States that summer. I threw a horrendous teenaged girl fit and cried about missing all the fun with my friends at the community pool. We toured every state west of the Mississipi that summer and I often think of that trip and the memories that we all shared. I especially think back on that summer when I start missing my father. He died of diabetes at the age of 55. He never knew his grandaughter.

Blocked, or not.

Does everyone have the ability to be creative? That is what I have been thinking about lately. I noticed that I haven't written anything that was made-up or imaginative in some years now. I do write essays, papers, letters, notes, e-mails, and occasionally a poem or two, but not really a story or the beginnings of a novel. And the ideas I do have are really just a thinly-veiled unveiling of my actual life. I don't think I could even create a alternative persona on that new internet "game" Second Life. I have too much to do maintaining my first life. Life is truly stranger than fiction, so why create?

I also am not interested in talking about my distant past. Not because I have some deep, dark moments to hide or avoid---I had a fairly happy childhood. Oldest daughter of a special-education teacher and a salesman/Air Force pilot, I went on a bevy of vacations with my parents and my two sisters because we loved to travel. I have been on a one-month trip that included most of the states west of the Mississippi in a motor home. I have camped on the beaches of Cape Cod and Savannah, Georgia. I have been flown in a 4-seater Cessna to Lake Wawasee by my own father. I know there are funny anecdotes in my past, but who writes happy and gets away with it?

College life was a growth experience. I was traumatized by the fact that it changed me from a shy teenager to the extrovert I am today. I cried as I left my parent’s home, but I never looked back. I transferred schools in the middle of my freshman year, with little or no scars. I even learned that being the only white girl on a black floor was something I could learn to embrace and not fear. I even joined a sorority myself for a year—something basically unheard of from a science major. I spent the last year interning in a medical center laboratory, living back with my parents. Is there a magazine article here?

I married a medical student—the smartest man I have ever met-- and learned to adapt and grow with another person. I didn’t let him outgrow me and I kept up with him intellectually. We lived in an a few apartments and a few houses and reared three children to young adulthood. We have seen dogs and cars come and go. We have backpacked to Europe in our youth, and have ventured out to many other places as the years went by—Costa Rica, Mexico, England, San Francisco, New York. Twenty-seven years later I look across a dinner table at a man that still interests me. Some great fights, but no divorce. I won’t get on Oprah at this pace.

If I am to created something, it must be in the future. Somewhere in the “undiscovered country.” I find myself not wanted to revise my past, but to explore what’s in front of me yet.

It's late, so I'll let my hair down

Nobody ever does anything the easy way in my family. From the outside, you might think we lead a pretty semi-charmed kind of life, and in a way we do. We have a house, some cars and enough to eat. But what you see isn't always what you get. I always wanted to have extraordinary children. A mother should be careful what she wishes for, or at least look up the meaning of the word extraordinary. Strange, odd, bizarre, and unexpected are lurking in the definition of extraordinary along with amazing and astonishing. I forgot to read the small print in the dictionary is all, but by then it was too late. I have three extraordinary children.

The youngest, a girl, attends college in Chicago where she studies Nursing and goes to a Second City workshop on the weekends. It seems that the one Humanities class she took was Acting and she was noticed by her acting professor as having "talent and honesty." I knew all that teenage girl-drama would not go to waste. She and I get along most of the time--at least I get along with one of her personalities. She can be the most intellectual, compassionate companion one minute and an insufferable ball of emotion the next. My favorite quote from my daughter: "You don't know what it is to be a girl, Mom, you are cold like a man." (Hey guys, I feel your pain.)

My middle son is nicknamed The Closer. He is a no-bullshit guys' guy, Homecoming king, fraternity president. All his life he has taken on more and more responsibility in his never-ceasing quest to "clear the family name." (Wait for it.) He is a senior at Miami of Ohio University in the quaint little town of Oxford, Ohio. He has an beautiful girlfriend who wants to be an English teacher. (Oedipus, anyone?) He is currently searching for a job that will allow him to settle in a different town than his parents. My favorite quote, spoken after he enrolled at IPFW for a summer class: "My communications class is like the United Nations--let's face facts Mom, at Miami, everyone pretty much looks like me."

My oldest. His life will make a great play someday. Once a student in all of the "gifted" classes, his best friend destined to be the school valedictorian, he gave that path up in his pursuit of alternative methods of consciousness. He is "taking a break" from college as he tries to "figure things out" in that infamous institution--the School of Hard Knocks. Rehab in Minnesota led him to his current occupation as the sous chef at the Palomino Restaurant in Minneapolis. He sleeps on a futon in a house he shares with two ex-bicycle messengers and a very well-behaved pit bull named Teenie. My favorite quote (although picking a favorite is very elusive): "Mom, you were a nerd in high school, you don't know what it means to be popular."

The house is empty now except for my spouse of 27 years and two 1-year old Puggles. The kids are in three different states, but their spirits can be heard occasionally yelling down the hallways or laughing in the basement. People ask if my life is too quiet now, and I say quiet? "What is that--I see 125 teenagers every day." I know this isn't really delving into the "cracks" of my own life, but it might help to understand how I feel spread out--pulled into geographical areas that I don't occupy. I am haunted by words.