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Sometimes they listen

24 Feb

I often ask myself, “What the heck am I doing here?” I’m an incredibly sensitive, self-conscious mouse that suffers a complete meltdown in the face of rejection.

I’m a teacher. Every day I face a hundred or so human beings tell me to my face what I value is irrelevant. Kind of a blow to the old ego.

Every day I have to put on my happy face and smile when I hear, “You teach English? I hated English.” And that’s from the adults.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m a lit freak. I like reading. I like writing. I like tearing down sentences the way some of my students like rebuilding engines. I like exploring stories that are challenging, ones with many levels of meaning. I’m kind of like an Indiana Jones of the written word.

My Motlow college students taunt me. “But Mrs. L., does everything have to have a hidden meaning? Why can’t a writer just write? Why do we have to analyze everything? Can’t we just read for fun?”

Well, yeah, kiddos, of course, you can. But don’t you get chills when you find the hidden gem in a poem? Don’t you dance to the cadence of well-written prose?

Never mind. I know the answers.

But occasionally, one or two students will approach me after class and say, “I get it. This stuff is really cool.” Of course, they wait until everyone else has left the room. It’s just not cool to like what some old dead guy wrote decades ago.

Several years ago, when I was working as a freelance music journalist, I met the Smalltown Poets, an Atlanta-based band, whose members were inspired by their creative writing class.

I guess that’s why I’ve always wanted to teach creative writing. I like being a bridge that links people to their dreams.

I did a little research and found a quote from Michael Johnston, Smalltown Poets band member, who explained how his teacher’s words inspired him.

“Our teacher said, ‘the best writing is honest writing.’ If you’re being vulnerable about who you are and let that come across in your writing, then that’s going to move people.”

Yes! That’s it. I envy Michael’s creative writing teacher. I wish I my words could move people. I wish I could make my students FEEL something when they read.

Yesterday one of my journalism students and I were discussing classic novels. He brought up 1984, Brave New World, and Animal Farm, which he has yet to read.

“Oh, yes,” I said. “Animal Farm, you have to read that one.”

And then our roles reversed. My student became the teacher.

“Hey, Mrs. L, did you know Pink Floyd’s album Animals was based on Animal Farm?” An avid Pink Floyd fan, my student spouted off a brief history.

Huh? You mean Roger Walters actually paid attention to his English teacher? He “got it”? Wow.

Our conversation inspired me to do a little digging to discover other music, inspired by lessons in literature.

  • Both David Bowie and Warren Zevon were inspired by the works of Lord Byron.
  • The Beatles included an image of Edgar Allan Poe on the cover of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, and John Lennon referred to Poe in “I Am the Walrus.”
  • Both Tool and Brittany Spears referred to Poe’s “dream within a dream” in their works.
  • Christian ska band Five Iron Frenzy includes several quotes from “The Raven” in “That’s How the Story Ends,” and the Christian heavy metal band wrote “Tell-Tale Heart” as a tribute to Poe.
  • Sheryl Crow’s song “All I Wanna Do” was inspired by the poem “Fun” by Wyn Cooper.
  • “All along the Watchtower” by Bob Dylan (and also recorded by Jimi Hendrix) was inspired by Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. The song also makes references to the Book of Isaiah.
  • Guns N Roses recorded the song “Catcher in the Rye,” inspired by J. D. Salinger’s novel by the same title.
  • Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” was born from Albert Camus’s The Stranger.

Wayne Kirkpatrick has penned and co-penned numerous songs for artists of many genres—Amy Grant, Michael W. Smith, Little Big Town, Bonnie Raitt, Garth Brooks, and many more, including the Grammy Song of the Year, “Change the World,” by Eric Clapton.

I was talking to Wayne during an interview several years ago. Nay, I was gushing during the interview—I really admire him. I asked Wayne about songs from album The Maple Room, particularly “That’s Not New Age.”

Even today I’m intrigued by the song because, one, it responds to the religious critics who questioned his relationship with Christ just because of his art, and, two, it includes the following line: “This won’t be another Salem/That was inexcusible/You won’t be my Cotton Mather/And I won’t be your crucible.”

Wayne Kirkpatrick, thank you for reminding us we aren’t God and we can’t judge another because we can’t see into anyone else’s heart. Thank you for following your convictions. Thank you for listening to your English teacher. Thank you for appreciating literature.

So what’s the take away from this rant?

I can’t make my students like or even appreciate literature. But sometimes they do. It just may take them a while to digest what the writer has to say.

I’m not a famous or important anything, but I am somebody who benefitted from lovers of literature and writing.

Thank you, Charles K. Wolfe, for publishing my first work and inspiring me to write about music.

Thank you, Pat St. Clair, for inspiring my voracious appetite for grammar. Because of you, I’m confident I can write ANYTHING. My college professors told me so.  

Thank you, Joyce McCullough, for Friday vocabulary tests that made me fall in love with words and for the little red journal in which I wrote all my thoughts. You wrote back to me. You were the first person who ever read my thoughts and made me realize I might have something interesting to say.

 
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Posted by on February 24, 2012 in Encouragement

 

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I love YA!

14 Feb

My kids

It’s Valentine’s Day. Who do you love?

(Yeah, I know I’m supposed to use an objective case pronoun there, but Bo Diddley didn’t write it that way.)

It’s my policy to stay away from syrupy sweet romantic anecdotes that make readers say “yuck.” So instead, I’ll talk about another kind of love.

The other day my English students and I were reading from Luke, Chapter 15, the parable of the prodigal son . What? Reading from the Bible in a public school? Our literature book includes the parable, so we analyzed it for its layers of meaning.

I asked my students with whom they identified more. The wayward son who wanted his rewards, squandered them, and then crawled back for redemption? Or the faithful son who never physically strayed but whose heart blackened with jealousy and entitlement.

Only the father had it right—unconditional love. He loved both of his sons despite their flaws. He gave his gifts out of love, not out of obligation.

I love young adults. Whenever I go to conferences and hear speakers talk about the YA culture, I want to scream, “I get it! I live it! Every day! Don’t you understand? I can write. Publish me! Publish me!”

Stories rush through my head like an Ocoee River rapid. But I don’t want to write just any story. I want to write a story that reveals truth and love.

Teenagers don’t understand real love. Heck, a lot of adults don’t understand it.

Like it or not, we’re all selfish. Rarely do we give without expecting anything in return. Young girls, especially, fall prey to their own selfishness. They want acceptance. They want to be loved, so they do whatever it takes to get what they want in return.

I want to tell them, “You don’t need any other human to validate your worth.”

Real love isn’t selfish. Real love isn’t real love unless you give it away, no strings attached.

My students’ responses to the prodigal son question varied.

Some of them have made major mistakes in their lives. They identified with the prodigal.  Some of them have tried their best to follow every rule. They identified with the older brother.

When I asked the class how they would feel if I gave an A to a student who slacked all year while giving a B to the students who worked hard, they protested.

“So,” I said, “you think you’re entitled to an A just because you think you earned it? I’m the teacher. I make the rules. The grades are mine to give. Who are you to say who gets what? You don’t see the big picture.” Or more accurately, the other side of the picture.

I used to be just like the older brother, quick to judge, prideful. But through my bought with pride, God developed my empathy and allowed me to see with His eyes, the other side of the picture.

The students in my class room are like portraits in an art gallery. When the kids come into my room, they see the other portraits, but they don’t see what’s on the other side.

I work with a lot of good kids. I’m blessed to have them in class. But sometimes they can be really hard on the kids who aren’t as smart or well behaved as they are. But then they don’t see the other side of the portrait. The portrait may pretty or horrendous on the one side, but the other side of the picture reveals the truth behind what’s up front.

The other day I had a student come into class with a scowl. She dropped her books on her desk and gave me what I thought was a death stare. I wasn’t exactly having a good day either. My first inclination was to say, “What’s your problem?”

But I resisted the urge to make it about me. Instead I asked, “What’s wrong?” And I listened. I found out she had been in an accident that morning, and she was still scared to death. I’m so glad I wasn’t a jerk.

Good or bad, students may never know their classmate sleeps on a mattress on a concrete floor in a truck stop. They may never know their classmate’s parents were taken to jail the night before. They may never know their classmate was the academic  leader in an elementary school in another state before his parents got divorced. They may never know their classmate cuts herself because her mother tells her she’s fat.

When people hurt, they do whatever it takes to make the pain go away. Their portrait shows “the whatever it takes to survive.” But the cause of the pain is hidden on the backside of the frame.

I teach. I see more than most. The good. The bad. The ugly. I see the serious. I see the silly. Today I witnessed a wedding. One of my students performed the ceremony while the flower girl carried a can of Febreeze.

The YA crowd is an anomaly. They live in an adult world, but they still have the heart of a child—hence their moments of random goofiness.

When I write my stories, I want to make my readers laugh, to give them an escape from reality, but I also want to give them unconditional love. I want them to know no matter what there is love waiting for them.

Words are powerful. The greatest gift anyone can give me is honesty. I want to trust what people say. I think young adults want that too.

I want my readers to trust me, but I don’t want to come across as self righteous or condemning. To imply I don’t fail is a lie.

I found a quote by Nathaniel Hawthorne in our literature book today. In case you don’t know, Hawthorne despised the judgmental attitudes of the Puritans, and his works reflect his disdain. Hawthorne said, “Those willing to resist society’s self-righteousness may achieve the humility necessary for genuine fellowship, but they will have trouble making themselves understood.”

I think young adults understand, more so, maybe, than jaded adults. Time hasn’t completely hardened their hearts—yet.

So I wish you a sincere Happy Valentine’s Day. Find someone who needs love and show it. We have the power—with our words—to make or break someone else’s day. May we use it wisely.

 
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Posted by on February 14, 2012 in Just for Fun

 

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Super Bored Sunday

05 Feb

Today I am a social outcast. It’s Super Bowl Sunday, and I don’t care.

I’ve tried to like football, or at least tolerate it. But I can’t lie. It’s just not me. I don’t follow college sports. I don’t follow professional sports—except for baseball, America’s favorite pastime. I cheer on my kids when they play. But me? I just don’t get it. And I don’t want to get it.

For a while I tried to pretend that I didn’t understand football. Why are all those men chasing each other just to squat down on that funny-shaped brown ball? I figured if I asked enough stupid questions I’d be banned from viewing.

Feigning ignorance worked for a while. But then I realized I didn’t get it. When I grew up, I liked playing backyard football. I begged my dad to show me how to throw spirals. I can do it—but I still don’t have the right technique. I can catch. But it wasn’t until the women teachers participated in a Powder Puff football game that I realized I really was ignorant.

I don’t like being ignorant.

I tried out for the team, and the coach put me in as a receiver. It wasn’t until that moment that I realized that only certain players were allowed to catch the ball. I always figured whoever was open caught the pass. I knew nothing about linemen and skilled players, lining down and blocking.

It didn’t take long for the Powder Puff coach to realize I was a threat—to our team. I could catch, yes. But he used me to send in the plays. Whenever I popped in the huddle, I became so befuddled that I couldn’t remember the sequence of numbers or the special terms. 48 blitz to the right something or another. Ah, just do whatever.

He benched me.

Part of my job is to teach my journalism students how to write about sports. I learned an invaluable lesson. If you don’t know anything about the sport, don’t cover it. It was then I made it my personal goal to learn football. If I were going to teach my writers to cover sports, I had to learn how to do it myself.

So I found myself down on the sidelines with my camera and reporter’s notepad. I learned about stunting and off tackle. I could spot motion in the backfield, illegal blocking, horse collaring, face masking, and other penalties.

But I never could quite get the hang of shooting action shots on the field. My zoom always froze. I should have used a monopod. My hands were too shaky. Interviews with the coaches weren’t a big deal, but I really had to work at learning how to talk football.

I still don’t fully get it. I guess my heart’s just not into it. Oh, I understand the passion players possess. Kenny Chesney’s song “The Boys of Fall” paints a beautiful picture in a literary sort of way.

I thrive on competition. I played softball and wore my Hale’s Angels travel team uniform with pride. I was offered a scholarship to play at a junior college but went with the full-ride academic scholarship I had from MTSU.

When it came down to softball, I would do anything just to be on the field. I’ve played with fevers. I’ve dodged missiles whizzing past my face. I’ve been hit. I’ve been threatened by Amazon women on rival teams. I broke my own teammate’s nose when I was trying to make an out at home. I was dead on. I hurled the ball right to the catcher, and it caught her right between the eyes. I don’t know how she didn’t see it coming.

I get the blood, the sweat, the tears that come with the game. I just don’t get football.

My favorite part of Super Bowl Sunday is the half-time show, and this year it’s Madonna. No offense, Madonna, but I don’t get you either. I want music, not theatrics.

I can’t even enjoy the Super Bowl parties. I’m a dedicated Weight Watcher, and I don’t want to blow my points on chips and dip. Chocolate just doesn’t mean that much to me anymore. I’d rather be healthy. I’d rather not have to pry on my new jeans.

So Super Bowl Sunday, I don’t want to rain on your parade, but I am going to slip off and watch a chick flick while the men in my family watch the last game of the season. I think the Giants and the Patriots are playing. Somebody give me a fist bump. I didn’t even have to Google it to find out.

I don’t follow either team, but if I had to choose, I’d say go Pats. You’re as close as I can get to Boston right now. And for me, Boston means one thing—baseball.

Let’s get this game over with and start singing “Sweet Caroline.”

 
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Posted by on February 5, 2012 in Just for Fun

 

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Touch

30 Jan

Have you seen the premiere of Touch, the new show starring Kiefer Sutherland? I’ve been a Sutherland fan since his role in The Lost Boys, but I just couldn’t get into 24.

His new show, however, hooked me from the start. Sutherland plays the widowed father of an autistic boy who has a very special gift. He can see the future. Literally.

This is not your typical Medium or Ghost Whisper supernatural drama. Eleven-year-old Jake sees what we cannot. He sees the mathematical patterns in every aspect of life, positioned purposely by the Creator. Everything…EVERYTHING…happens for a reason.

While I don’t believe we will ever comprehend God, I do believe in Intelligent Design. I believe God made us in His image. That’s why I’m so thankful for having a creative soul. I used to love numbers, but a academic scheduling mishap pointed me in the direction of words, and now I write.

I’m blessed to be a writer. The disciples were among the first journalists. Jesus spoke the world into being. Words bless. Words curse. Words are my acrylics, my pastels on the canvas of life. Words change lives.

I’m not so arrogant to believe I have God all figured out. I’m humbled now more than ever. But I’m fascinated by all the mysteries of the world. I don’t believe in coincidence. I believe there is so much more that the mind is capable of doing. God knows. Whether or not he gifts us to be able to use these parts of our brains is up to Him. But I’m not so sure I could handle it if I knew more than I do right now.

Dreams are one of those phenomenon that intrigue me the most. Even when we are not awake, our subconscious takes over and sends us messages. Dreams reveal the answers to questions that perplex us during the waking hours. And the Bible tells us God speaks to us in dreams.

Once I had a dream about a little girl holding the hand of an other brother. The dream was in black and white, and at the time remembered the details. I nonchalantly went to school the next day and told one of my friends about the dream. The look on her face frightened me. She said everything I dreamed about was a scene from her childhood. It was as if I had dreamed an image of her and her brother. Why? I don’t know. How would I have known these things? She grew up in Louisiana. I’ve lived in Tennessee all my life.

Oh, and by the way, the colors of my dreams have special meanings. Black and white always feels “weird,” almost ominous. Colorful dreams are always happy and rarely give me the heebie jeebies like my B&W dreams do. But I do believe God has a purpose in making our minds work this way.

That’s why I think it’s imperative we have a quiet time to listen to God speak. When I have a writing assignment, for example, I can’t always sit down at the lamp top and produce. I usually pray and then let my mind wander and just think.

The other night I woke up after having a movie dream. I’m not a script writer, but occasionally I dream movies. On other occasions as I lie in bed on a lazy Saturday morning, an entire book outline will fill my thoughts.

But this particular movie dream–in color–astounded me. My mind created an entire cast of characters I had never before seen. They each had personalities. The dream had a plot, and there was one particular scene that was hilarious. I woke up laughing.

And yet none of this was real. My subconcious mind created the characters, the setting, the plot, the dialogue, the humor. God made me that way.

I believe there is much ablity within us that we aren’t aware of.  I believe in a spiritual world that’s separated from us by a veil. We are not equipped to see it. But what if God gave some people the gift?

The TV series Touch may or may not have a spiritual twist. The premiere didn’t give me enough to make a decision, but it did evoke thought.

I believe in miracles. I believe in divine intervention. I believe people come into our lives for a reason. I believe there are supernatural mysteries we cannot explain.

I wish I had paid more attention to the stories my grandmother used to tell, but apparently the Bell side of the family had something passed down through them that made them more sensitive to what was about to occur in the future. Frankly, the stories freaked me out as a little kid, and maybe I purposely forgot them. But the Bible does mention discernment.

I risk convincing my blog buddies that I am a true psycho chick, but I will confess to experiencing an “odd” moment in my life. I cannot explain what happened. I don’t know what it happened. But I do believe it was a God thing.

I was in high school. I must have been a senior because I had my own car, an olive green Impala I bought from my uncle. I was driving to a taco party, hosted by one of my favorite teachers. Allow me to stress that this was a G+ rated party in which NOTHING remotely inappropriate would go on. My friends’ band was playing the party, and I was ready for a fun night.

But on the way there, I was stopped dead in my tracks. I pulled my car up to a giant hole in the road. It was if a backhoe or other heavy machinery had dug up the road. There was no passing, no getting through. The dirt was piled up, and a huge pipe protruded from the hole.

I didn’t live far from the party, but I was bewildered. How was going to get there? I pulled up to the pile of dirt and put my car in park. I sat there for a moment and eyed it. I finally put it in reverse and drove home.

My parents were concerned, so my daddy decided to drive me to take a look. We drove to the spot, and nothing was there. Nothing. No dirt. No pipe. No leaf pile that I might have interpreted as a dirt pile. Nothing.

Was I seeing things? I don’t know. Did God send me a vision? I don’t know. Was he keeping me off the road for a particular length of time? I don’t know.

Back during the mid seventies there was a rash of UFO sightings across the nation. Middle Tennessee wasn’t spared. One night my dad and I were in the car together, and we looked up as saw three spheres in the sky, all different colors. We watched and watched and watched, and they went away. No explanation.

This time I had a witness to the strange phenomenon I experienced. Neither of us was the type to seek out weird experiences. We weren’t intoxicated, drugged, or subliminally seduced. We were just father and daughter returning home from a mundane errand.

I believe there is more to this universe than meets the eye. Jesus spoke in parables because He communicates best with us on a deeper level. I believe in order for us to truly understand Him, we must make time to listen and to meditate on His word.

As a creative person, I know that without Him, I would be nothing. And like a little child, I will be, gazing in wide wonder at all the mysteries that surround me. I pray that I never, ever, take them for granted.

 
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Posted by on January 30, 2012 in Hot Topics

 

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Skinny flowers

17 Jan

I could never work as a gossip columnist or a hard news reporter. I’m too sensitive. I don’t like offending anyone, intentionally or not. I’m also hesitant about dropping names, especially when I know all the interviews I’ve ever had, all the celebrities I’ve ever met, are gifts from God, not rewards. I didn’t earn them.

During the last year I have taken my relationship with God to a different level. I don’t think we can ever reach an ultimate level of intimacy with our Creator. The more we seek, the more He reveals about Himself and about ourselves. Honesty is the key. We can’t lie to God. He knows what we think, how we feel whether we confess it or not. Confession frees us.

I have had a rough year. I have retreated. But I’ve learned when we’ve had more than our minds can take in, we need a quiet place to reflect and to be still. That’s where I’ve been. And in my quiet place, God has not forsaken me. He has sent me flowers, skinny flowers.

“Skinny flowers” is actually a phrase from a song by Three Crosses, my all-time contemporary Christian band. And yes, God came through on that one too and gave me an opportunity to write a story about this bluesy rock band for a national music magazine.

I never dreamed I’d talk to the members, but God is good like that, giving me the desires of my heart. One of my favorite songs is about a band member’s daughter who picks skinny flowers for her daddy, little bouquets of love.

I liked the album so much that I bought one for one of my best friends who had a little girl of her own. Rhonda played the “skinny flowers” song almost every time they were in the car, and little Emily, who is now a freshman in college, could sing every word.

The irony is God recently picked a very special skinny flower for me, one that makes me say, “Wow. Who would have though God was planning this all along?”  Of course, we never know what God has in mind, how He can make anything work for our good.

The little girl in that song, April, is now a beautiful young lady and recording artist with a voice like an angel, and my son Josh just shot  a music video for her yesterday. I never would have dreamed it. What a sweet gift!

I’ve seen parts of the video. It’s beautiful. I’m not at liberty to post anything else, but I can tell you I’ve heard her singing the song at least a hundred times this weekend via video, and every time I have had to stop what I’m doing to listen. The song is a cover tune, but I refuse to listen to the original. April makes me believe the song, makes me live the song.

Who would have thought that God would use the little girl who picked skinny flowers to help heal my grief?

The truth is during my retreat into the wilderness, God has not abandoned me. He has sent me several flowers, all in the form of special people who have changed my life and who have helped me heal.

I don’t know what’s next in life. Everything is changing—and some of these changes are good, exciting. I can’t help but think of the Martin Luther King, Jr. quote: “Faith is taking the first step even when you don’t see the whole staircase.”

I don’t know what will happen next. I do know how I feel. I suppose I’ll just keep climbing in faith. They say never look down when you’re moving to higher places.

Despite my flaws and fears, despite life’s circumstances, I haven’t abandoned God. He hasn’t abandoned me, and the skinny flowers he sends are constant reminders He has a plan. He makes things work out. He knows our hearts. He knows the truth.

So whatever it is that God has me doing, I want to be a skinny flower (quite literally, I’ll admit. I’ve been living the Weight Watchers life, and it’s working!) But more importantly I want to be a flower in someone’s bouquet, a reminder of God’s love. I don’t want to be a rose. Roses have thorns.

I think I’d like to be a rare wild flower like the ones that grow on the May Prairie. We had a few of them to pop up on our land when we lived in Asbury, and they dazzled me with their beauty. I never knew their real names. They were like nothing I’d ever seen.

I think I’m like a wild flower because I’m not typical. I think God places me in the bouquets of people who do don’t conventional very well.

I want my life to have purpose, to have meaning. I don’t care about material riches. I just want my life to be rich, so I invest in people, and so far, thanks to the lovely bouquets God has sent me during these dark days, I’d say I’m blessed beyond measure.

 
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Posted by on January 17, 2012 in Encouragement

 

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Midnight in your imagination

11 Jan

Admit it. Don’t you wish you could escape reality, just for a moment?

I have. This weekend I faced returning to school, cleaning out my parents’ house, reorganizing my house, and making some other important decisions.

I felt as if my brain were spinning like a cage on one of the old Zipper rides at the carnival.

So I escaped…vicariously, of course, through a romantic comedy, my all-time favorite genre of movies.

I blame my movie adventure on one of my newspaper editors. We were planning the February issue of The Edge and found ourselves making a list of our top romantic movies. We both agreed on Leap Year, and I was determined to watch it this past weekend.

The luck of the Irish was not shining on me though. I couldn’t find Leap Year on any of my movie channels. But I serendipitously discovered another movie called Midnight in Paris that could possibly rank second in my all-time favorite movie list, falling close behind my top choice Serendipity, of course, and giving Leap Year a tight battle for the number two slot.

Midnight in Paris may be the most romantic movie I’ve ever seen. It’s as if someone tore a page out of my journal, tweaked a few details, and turned my thoughts into a motion picture.

Owen Wilson takes the lead role of Gil, a hopeless romantic writer, who pays the bills by turning out lucrative Hollywood screen plays. But he wants to write a novel. He’s written a manuscript, but he has shown it to no one, primarily because his finance Inez (Rachel McAdams) belittles him and doesn’t support his dream.

He wants to move to Paris and walk in the rain and reminisce about the past. Inez finds herself attracted to a pompous know-it-all pseudo expert in everything from wine tasting to art. As Gil grows closer to his dream city, he moves further away from Inez. Their ideas of romance don’t mesh. His imagination fuels his passion. She can’t see beyond dollar signs and prestige.

When Gil takes a midnight walk, his life changes forever. A strange car pulls up beside him, and the driver offers him a ride. He finds himself transported magically back to the Golden Age of the 1920s, where he meets a host of creative artists who re-ignite his own passion—F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, Picasso, Dali, Gertrude Stein, Cole Porter, to name a few.

Gil must decide whether to live in the past, to stick with the status quo, or to change his present.

Admit it. If you had the chance, wouldn’t it be great to step back in time to meet the artists who fuel your passion for literature, music, or art? Wouldn’t it be great if that one moment breathed new life into your dreams?

I actually had the chance to do that once, well, kind of. I took a creative nonfiction class for my master’s degree in journalism education through the University of Missouri, and my professor asked us to incorporate all five of our senses as we wrote a piece about a specific place. Back then I hadn’t started my novel, and I was still doing quite a few celebrity interviews. My favorite band was the Eagles, and my chance of interviewing one of the original members was approximately one in a million. But what if I did interview one of them? Where would we meet? What would I say?

I threw caution to the wind and imagined myself in The Troubadour on Santa Monica Boulevard in West Hollywood. Why? Because that’s where members of the Eagles band used to hang out when they first got their start in the music business.

I didn’t have the money to fly to California, and I certainly couldn’t go back in time. But that’s what I what I wanted to write about, and somehow I needed to get there. I researched the place and its surroundings, including the Italian restaurant next door, and somehow I found myself sitting next to Glenn Frey and Don Henley in The Troubadour, watching Steve Martin on stage, and drooling over the aroma of pasta dishes wafting in from next door.

It was one the best experiences in my life that never really happened, and I remember every little detail, despite none of them being true. That’s why I find it so ironic that a few years later Eagle guitarist Joe Walsh did call me, and we did have a real one-on-one conversation. This little incident just reaffirms my belief that ANYTHING can happen. Dreams do come true.

So if you had a chance to step back in time to meet someone who inspired you? Who would you meet? Where would you go? To what era would you travel?

I’ve occasionally written about creative escapes in my blogs. I’ve spent quite a few weekends in Franklin, perusing the Henpeck Market and eating at McCreary’s. As often as I can, I go to Memphis and hang out in Handy Park and the Memphis Music store.

But when I can’t travel very far away, I find myself in one of the quaint railroad towns like Normandy, Wartrace, or Bell Buckle—Bell Buckle, especially. There’s just something magical about that little town.

I have several readers from all across the nation. If you ever find yourself traveling down Interstate 24 toward Chattanooga, Tennessee, you MUST take a short detour to Bell Buckle. I’ve never had the pleasure of staying in one of the several bed and breakfast homes, but, hey, what a GREAT place for a writer’s retreat. Someone needs to organize it. It might just have to be me.

There’s one particular antique store in Bell Buckle that takes me back to the 30s and 40s every time I walk in. I can’t explain it, but I can feel it. I also like visiting the ice cream shop.

Now that I’m committed to a diet, I probably won’t see another ice cream soda until this spring, but every time I step foot in this parlor I feel as though I’m ready to order a strawberry phosphate or an ice cream soda with Emily and George from Our Town.

To me, Bell Buckle is enchanted. Of course, I’m a tourist, not a local. But you can find me there almost every week, strolling through the town, visiting the boutiques, or simply going for a ride through the country side. It is my escape.

So far I haven’t “met” any of my favorite writers in Bell Buckle although I wouldn’t be surprised in Edgar Allan Poe were to show up. I imagine he and I might speculate about the Victorian houses that appear to be haunted and the graveyard that sits in the middle of town.

Do you need an escape as badly as I do? Where would you go? Who would you meet? Why? When? Give me all the five w’s and throw in the h.

I really want to know.

 
9 Comments

Posted by on January 11, 2012 in Creative Escapes

 

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Last Duck March of 2011

03 Jan

I spent New Year’s Eve alone in downtown Memphis watching five ducks parade down a red carpet. Before you feel sorry for me, let me reassure you I had other options. I could have gone with the guys and watched Vandy take on Cincinnati in the Liberty Bowl.

Me and football? Nah. I don’t like football.

I didn’t want to ruin the game for them. Plus, I like alone time. I like thinking my own thoughts, and Memphis possesses just the right ambience for writing.

I had no transportation, a little money, and a notebook. I was set. I found a safe spot at the foot of W.C. Handy’s statue in the park and let my stream of consciousness form words on the page. I would have made William Faulkner mighty proud.

I made the trip to Memphis to rediscover myself. Amidst my recent tragedy, I misplaced my goals, my dreams, my desires. But in Memphis they began to trinkle back, one by one as I listened to music drift in and out of one doorway then another.

The blues has a way of cutting to the core and making people move. You have to do something when you hear the blues. You just can’t be. You have to be something. I searched for what I was.

The first word that came to mind was crazy. My friends warned me not to go alone. They said I’d end up getting mugged or worse.

Nonsense. But a quick scan of a vendor’s wares reminded me how naïve I can be. For five bucks I could buy  a rhinestone Glock belt buckle. If I were in the wrong place at the wrong time, say just a couple streets over behind the Fed Ex, I could buy the farm.

I wasn’t afraid, but I wasn’t stupid either. I set my radar on high alert.

The wind picked up and rustled my pages. It was too chilly to stay outside much longer. I figured I might as well do a little shopping (loosely translated looking), so I headed to the Peabody Hotel to check out the boutiques, terribly expensive but free to browse.

Somehow I found myself in the lobby, awaiting the grand event of the day—The Last Duck March of 2011.

I had heard of the Peabody Ducks, but I never took time to watch them. As the story goes, after sipping a little too much Jack Daniels, General Manager Frank Schutt let loose three live decoys in the hotel fountain. The guests fell in love with the ducks. A former Ringling Bros. animal trainer took the official position of Duckmaster and trained the ducks to walk the red carpet from their pent house abode to the marble fountain and back each day. Thus, a tradition was born.

I am a writer who searches for metaphor, another level of meaning, both in literature and in life. For some reason, The Last Duck March of 2011 stuck with me. It had to mean “something” more than just a one-time event. Where’s the serendipity in that?

So I did a little research to unearth any symbolism associated with ducks. Because ducks can run, swim, or fly to elude their enemies, they are considered resourceful. Celtic legends also depict ducks as symbols of simplicity, honesty, and sensitivity. J.D. Salinger’s Catch in the Rye relies on ducks to convey a message of the motion of life.

But what about me?

Why did I spend an hour at the Peabody Hotel, notebook in hand, waiting, waiting, waiting to watch five ducks waddle down a red carpet to an elevator door?

Oh, it was a grand to-do, mind you. I snagged optimum seating, a red chair in front of the entourage. Children and adults lined the red carpet. Everyone toyed with their cameras, checking the flashes, waiting for the special moment.

The truth is I really didn’t care about the ducks. It was something to do. I watched. They waddled. I left.

It was getting late, so I made my way to Starbucks to finish my writing with the help of a grande three-pump, nonfat, half-caf, no whip mocha. Not that I’m picky or anything.

As I waited for my drink, I cast my eyes on a small table for two. But before I could sit down, some guy staked it out by setting his backpack in one of the chairs. I took a bar seat by the window. It was just as well. I could watch the carriages roll by. I looked over my shoulder. It figured the guy would be a writer. He gripped a pen and scribbled words in his notebook.

Inspired, I took out my notebook and wrote my own words in a frenzy, page after page. Then three street kids walked in. If I had to guess they lived behind the Fed Ex Forum, which is directly across from Starbucks. If I traveled a few streets over in that direction, I bet I could find a real Glock, not like the one with Rhinestone bling on the vendor’s table.

The funny thing was I knew these kids.

These were the kids I had written about in my first manuscript and the incomplete sequel. I watched them out of the corner of my eye. Unbelievable. The characters I created were so real to me I recognized them when I saw them on the street.

That’s when it hit me, and I almost said it aloud. “I have got to get my ducks in a row.”

My metaphor.

The year 2011 was very difficult for me, but 2012 doesn’t have to be, despite what people have predicted. I can choose to make the best of my situation, and if 2012 does turn bad, at least I will have spent my days living instead of hiding.

So if I have one resolution for 2012, it’s to get my “ducks in a row.”

I will polish my manuscript and send it to the agents and editors who have requested it. I will finish my sequel and plan out my other two story ideas that await being written. I will on my lyrics and take a chance on a few dreams.

I have to get my ducks in a row.

What’s your metaphor for 2012?

 
9 Comments

Posted by on January 3, 2012 in Encouragement

 

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Psycho analysis of a psycho writer chick

29 Dec

If you could step into a TV show for a day, which one would you choose?

The answer’s easy for me. Psych.I’m addicted to the show. My favorite Christmas present? A pair of Shawn and Gus talking bobble heads. Whaaaaaat?

If only real life could be as hilarious as the adventures of Shawn and Gus. Shawn is a psychic, a fake one. He reads people and hones in on their little clues. He drags Gus, his trusty sidekick, into all sorts of adventures.

Sounds like my kind of life. Really.

People readers notice the most subtle of clues and analyze, analyze, analyze. It’s fun until we people readers drive ourselves paranoid. But let’s have a little fun and re-create a scene from Criminal Minds, The Closer, or even Psych. All we need is an unsub.

What if an investigative crew found a picture of your personal belongings? What do your things say about you? Just to keep it easy and short, let’s stick to our desks or work tables. I’ll go first. Take a look at the photos.

On the left I have a variety of cat paraphernalia. Two plastic jars of Pounce Caribbean Catch Tuna Flavor cat treats. A fuzzy mouse that can be filled with catnip. And a plastic baggie of catnip.

At first glance an investigative crew might assume that I am a diehard cat lover.

Wrong. I like cats, but I like dogs better. I love one cat—Stevie Ray, my blues cat, who showed up about a year ago. I probably shouldn’t call him my cat. He comes and goes as he pleases. If I wanted to, I could trap him inside and buy him a litter box, but he’s too dignified for that.

I can’t help but remember that stupid quote from my junior high years:  If you love something, let it go. If it comes back to you, it’s yours. If not, it was never meant to be.

Stupid, sappy love quote. All the other girls wrote on their composition books. Not me. Anyway, I haven’t seen Stevie Ray all day. Stupid quote.

At second glance, the investigative crew might inspect the plastic baggie of catnip with the pipe lying beside it. Officers, I can explain.

See, it went down like this. Number Two Son saw the baggie of catnip and busted a gut as only a twelve year old can do. He peeled the label off the catnip baggie and laid the pipe next to it. I know it does not look like catnip, but it IS catnip.

I was framed.

And that brings us back to the pipe, courtesy of Number One Son.

Number One Son received the pipe from his girlfriend as a gift. It is not a real pipe. It blows bubbles. Number One’s girlfriend thought it was funny. Said girlfriend also gave Number Two Son a week’s worth of fake mustaches for Christmas. This girl is as warped as the rest of us. I like her.

And what about the other items? Let’s start with the Aerosmith CD. Whaaaaaat? The unsub profile suggests a Steven Tyler fan lives here. Well, duh.

An iPod. A new metronome. Speakers. Check. Check. Check. Music lover. Got it.

Ducks. There is no explanation for the ducks. Sorry. Your guess will have to suffice.

Bottled water. Unsub does not like soda. (And I HATE calling soda, soda. It’s Coke. I don’t care if it’s Pepsi, Sprite, or Dr. Pepper. But a Sundrop is always a Sundrop…if you’re a true blue Southerner, which I am.) A pen. The unsub likes to write. A red folder with only one sheet of writing. The unsub almost always types everything and only writes in notebooks and journals when she is on a special writing adventure.

And the laptop. That’s a blog unto itself. Investigators would surely snatch up that bad boy and take it to the lab for further analysis. (The unsub wishes that while they are at it, they’d tidy up the first manuscript inside and send it to the editors and agents who requested it. Yeah, it’s time to get back to work.)

A really good investigative team, however, would not stop there. The team would also analyze what is not there, i.e.—who took the picture.

Judging from the angles in the picture, whoever took the picture had to be standing on something looking down on the items. If the unsub took the picture, the unsub must be short. The laptop does not sit on a desk. It sits on a bistro table with a regular office chair in front of it.

Wow. The unsub must be a little off, for if the unsub is short, the unsub’s chin would break even with the edge of the table, making for a very uncomfortable, goofy-looking typing situation. (Fortunately, a brown box that holds a new desk waits in the corner.)

The unsub must be more than a little off. Again, the picture angles suggest the unsub stood in a rolling chair to take a picture of a baggie of catnip and a bubble pipe lying next to a computer.

Stupid! Why would anyone do that?

Honestly, I hope no one tries to profile me based on my belongings. Sheesh. Psychoanalyzing me could drive a person insane. Just ask. I’ll tell you. Better yet, I’ll write it.

Now, it’s your turn. Tell me what’s on your desk, table, or work area. I’ll psycho analyze you for free. Let’s see how close—or far away—I can get.

“You know that’s right.”

 
27 Comments

Posted by on December 29, 2011 in Just for Fun

 

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Merry Christmas 2011

25 Dec

Last January I wanted to find the perfect snow day picture. I think I came pretty close. The barn and the trees covered with snow paint a picture of peace and serenity.

I wanted to write the perfect Christmas blog, but I couldn’t find the perfect words. These will have to do.

A couple of days ago I made a quick trip to a convenience store to buy some cleaning supplies. I couldn’t tell if the woman in front was older or younger than me, but her eyes told me she had lived a hard life.

I was in a hurry, but the lady wanted to talk. “Today has been a bad day,” she said to the cashier. The cashier said nothing but scanned and bagged the items.

“My mother died today.”

All of a sudden it didn’t matter to me that I was in a hurry. The cashier looked up with empathy and muttered, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

I knew I had to say something. I felt this woman’s pain even though we had never met before. I told her my parents had died recently and that I was so, so sorry that she had to go through such a difficult time. I didn’t have anything else to offer her except a sincere heart that said I cared.

“Yeah, no one’s ever died on me,” she said. We stared at each other for a few seconds. I just kept telling her I was so sorry. Then the cashier handed the woman her bag. The woman and I looked at each other again, but I was out of words. My heart hurt for her.

“Merry Christmas,” she said and walked out the door. I never saw her again.

I believe with all my heart that people’s paths cross for a reason. Some people call it divine appointments. God lets me call it serendipity. I hope that my simple, imperfect words comforted the lady who had just lost her mother. She needed to tell someone. I didn’t do much, but I was there. All I had to offer was a sincere heart.

The last blog I wrote was all about my obsession for shopping, but the truth is material things really mean nothing to me. I wrote the blog because it seems everywhere I turn everyone seems so perfect, especially at Christmas.

People throw on their cloaks of piety and perfection and mask their true natures. They give handouts of grace and mercy to the unfortunate. Once Christmas is over, however, they take off their cloaks and then wrap themselves in self righteousness. The grace and mercy go back in the attic until next season.

The most important gift anyone can receive at Christmas or any other time is love, specifically Christ’s love, but nonbelievers turn away from the gift because they don’t feel worthy of receiving it.

I don’t know about you, but people who demand perfection make me uncomfortable. Sometimes believers come across that way. I hope no one thinks I think I’m perfect. I am far, far from the target.

But what I do know is that God loves imperfect people, and He can make the impossible happen. Even when we make bad decisions, He can choreograph life so that we can get back on track and be happy again.

I always wanted to be a writer, but teaching wasn’t my original plan. Yet through teaching I have met my audience, the teens for whom I want to write, and I have learned from them, and I’ve learned to love them.

Christmas day is coming to a close, and I still haven’t found the perfect words. I simply am not perfect. I don’t say the perfect thing at the perfect time, but God has given me this heart that loves like crazy.

So that’s it, all I have to offer, just a few imperfect words and a very sincere heart.

Merry Christmas.

 
21 Comments

Posted by on December 25, 2011 in Encouragement

 

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True confessions

12 Dec

I’m always searching for interesting blog topics, and think I found one—true confessions. Have you seen these posts on Facebook? A person confesses his or her secret for the cyber world to see. Makes for interesting reading.

Why would anyone do that!

But I’ve decided to follow the trend and publish my version of true confessions. Okay, here it goes.

The question? If you were to be granted only one wish for Christmas this season, what would it be?

My answer?  A black 1969 SS Camaro with racing stripes and a variety of other muscle car features that I really know nothing about but nevertheless excite me.

Wrong answer.

The correct answer, of course, is world peace, love, and harmony for all the children of the world.

I would have made a terrible Miss America.

My true confession is I can be horribly selfish. I don’t mean to be bad. I just am.

Case in point, Black Friday, THE day for maximum Christmas gift shopping. But I rarely buy anything for anyone else on this day. All I think about is how cute those shoes would look with the outfit I bought at the last store. Or how could I possibly pass up a bargain on a sweater or a pair of jeans.

When I walk into a store, my eyes light up at all the beautiful things, clothes especially. I’m not usually materialistic. It’s that I love shopping—for me.

And when it comes to gifts, I know it’s the thought that counts, but I really like opening up presents. I really like surprises.

According to Dr. Larry Chapman, who wrote the book The Five Love Languages, I’m not materialistic. I [thrive] “on the love, thoughtfulness, and effort behind the gift.” It’s true. I associate people with things. Take jewelry, for example. I don’t wear expensive jewelry. I don’t like expensive jewelry, but I like cheap, unusual necklaces if they hold special meanings.

I’ve worn rings from candy machines, and I’ve worn shell necklaces from the beach just because one of my little boys gave it to me. When I wear these gifts, I feel as though I have a part of them with me.

Sappy, huh?

Allow me to clarify the gift of an expensive ’69 Camaro.

I would have no problem accepting that gift from anyone at anytime. So, last minute shoppers, just throw the keys into your shopping cart, and send that sucker to me. I won’t complain.

The four other languages include words of affirmation, quality time, acts of service, and physical touch. My mother always told me, “Actions speak louder than words, and, ironically for a writer, I have always lived by her advice. But each person has his or her own language.

I know that at the holidays it’s better to give than to receive, but, true confession, I really have a difficult time doing that. Fact is receiving brings out the kid in me. I get sooo excited.

Selfish.

When I get something in my mind, that’s what I want, and nothing else will do. I remember writing to Santa one Christmas for a blue banana seat buzz bike. I pictured it in my mind. It was all I ever wanted. And on Christmas morning, I woke up and found a sparkling metallic gold bike with a basket and tassels hanging from the handlebars.

I couldn’t hide my disappointment. I didn’t get what I wanted. I got what somebody else picked out for me. How could Santa do that when I specifically asked for a blue bike?

My parents were disappointed too—in me for my lack of gratitude. My heart sunk when I realized I had let them down, but I couldn’t believe Santa didn’t read my letter closely enough. I’ve always been a perfectionist with outstanding handwriting. He should have caught my specifics. Looking back now, I realize the gold bike was the prettiest one at the North Pole. But it wasn’t what I wanted.

Selfish.

I attach way too much sentimental value to objects. Even chocolate donuts.

When my husband and I first married, we rarely saw each other because we were going to school and each working many, many hours just to be able to afford rent. Typical meals consisted of pork and beans and unsweet Kool-Aid. (I HATE pork and beans.)

In addition to my scholarship job and working at the library, I also used to babysit our neighbor’s little boy. To my horror, I saw the little boy in our living room, watching our TV, and eating one of my prized chocolate donuts that my husband had given him.

You probably don’t understand how special those chocolate donuts were to me. (I don’t eat them now—too fattening.) Chocolate has always been my drug of choice, and this kid was eating one of the last ones in the box. Pay day was weeks away, and I didn’t have the money to go buy another box.

After the father picked up his kid, I lit into my husband and picked up one of the last remaining donuts, zinged it like Josh Beckett straight at the man who invaded my stash. I caught him in the left ear.

I always kept my donuts in the refrigerator because I like cold chocolate. Plus, my father taught me how to throw a baseball. I didn’t throw like a girl, so I dinged him pretty good.

That was stupid. One, he is a lot bigger than me, and two, I threw away a perfectly good donut. This incident was totally out of character for me. I usually keep everything in. But when it comes to chocolate—

The donut was more than a donut to me. It was a symbol of reward after hours of sacrifice. That kid didn’t deserve my donut.

Selfish.

Just a couple of weeks ago my journalism students and I played Secret Pal, and we brought small gifts to our people. I had a nice chocolate candy bar picked out for my person. But I was so stressed out that I ate it before I could give it to him.

Selfish.

I’m working on my selfishness. But I still have a terrible time during the Christmas season. I despise the commercialism, but I love shopping. I just don’t like shopping for others in general.

But when I’m shopping for a SPECIAL gift, I will go to the extremes to get it, even if it means traveling over the hills and far away.I put a lot of thought into special gifts. It really bums me out when people don’t appreciate my effort. That’s why I have to work on my own selfishness. Not everyone shares my love language of receiving gifts. Not everyone associates sentimental feelings with material things.

My efforts might be better spent focusing on one of the other four remaining love languages rather than worrying if my present sends the right message.

All the better for me—more time to shop—for me.

I know, say it with me. Selfish.

I don’t mean to be bad. I don’t want to be selfish. I just am. True confession. But I’m working on it.

Santa probably won’t bring me anything but a sack of coal this season, but I’ll still have fun opening it.

 
18 Comments

Posted by on December 12, 2011 in Just for Fun

 

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