All posts having to do with writing

HTTP Sitrep 2: Such a Waste

05 Sunday Apr 2015

Posted by André J. Powell in HTTS, Observation, Writing

Tags

Adventist school system, Holly Lisle, How To Think Sideways, Memories, writing, Writing struggles

It appears I am a hater and a holder of grudges even, I am ashamed to admit, against the dead.

In my second go-round of the Sweet Spot Map (SSM) exercise, the “I hate…” portion populated itself all too quickly. Some of the items were good things to have an aversion for: injustice, religious intolerance, and mental, physical and emotional abuse, etc. I discovered other things against which I had set my anger and hate, however, less worthy things that left me alarmed and disturbed.
As I allowed my right brain to express itself, the actions of five former high school teachers quickly added themselves to the “I hate…” page. I was mildly surprised at how fast the memories and emotions surfaced. I say “mildly” because I was no stranger to the memories having long ago wrestled with them while formulating my own teaching philosophy. What startled me was their visceral and evocative nature. 35 years notwithstanding, in a flash of memory and adrenaline, I was suddenly back in those classrooms, back in those embarrassing situations experiencing the frustration and impotent rage all over again.

     Some background is in order before I proceed. While we were not a regular church going family, whenever my mother, sister and I visited my grandparents, we attended with them. Doing anything with my grandma was always fun and I was in such hero-worshiping-awe of my grandfather that going anywhere with him was a treat. After years of witnessing their quiet conviction and genuine concern for others, their example has ever been the definition of what “living” one’s faith and true commitment means to me.
     When I was nine, my mother, who had dropped out of the Seventh-day Adventist faith when young, decided to start attending church again. She was soon re-baptized and my sister and I were enrolled in the local Adventist school. While I had some positive experiences and good times, I did not remain an Adventist but ceased regular attendance about a dozen years after my high school graduation and eventually withdrew completely. My disillusion with the Adventist religious system has many roots, but the tap root is firmly anchored in my high school experience and in the actions of the those five teachers.
     There was one teacher in particular whose name I had a hard time recalling. I could only remembered his surname’s initial probably because he was not one of my classroom teachers. I clearly remember the incident associated with him though.
     Students in the Adventist school system during the last half of the 70’s had to handle a ton of prohibitions. According to the powers that be, the devil was behind anything that was not directly connected to the religious system. Dancing, hand-holding, movies, non-christian books, competition sports, and bacon were high on the “no fly” list. Considering the era, and from a more experienced man’s viewpoint, I understand how such conservationism could have evolved. Kent State’s echo could still be heard; Watergate was a fairly recent memory and as a result, America had lost some of its confidence and deeply distrusted its leaders; indeed, it was during my freshman year that Saigon finally fell to the North Vietnamese. The legacy of the drug culture and free-love movement had left its mark in the dark rumor of AIDS gathering on the horizon. It’s no exaggeration to say that the country still feels reverberations of that time. As a consequence, leaders of many religious systems yearned for a simpler time when that “…old-time religion was good enough for…” all and the Adventists were no exception.

     But no where were these prohibitions more stringent than in reference to rock-music. One day toward the end of the year, a guitar-playing friend of mine and I, a drummer, decided to noodle with some tunes like Smokin’ on the Water and O’Black Water during lunch period while the faculty was up in the lounge eating lunch. My father, a non-Adventist, was an RV salesman by day and a bass playing musician by night. Though I wanted to play bagpipes (we’re Scottish on my mother’s side) my family couldn’t afford them, but I was indulged with a used set of drums as my second musical love. Now, we knew that playing at school would be frowned upon by the establishment but figured we’d be done by the time lunch was over. We’d play for 20 minutes or so, then load up the kits in our friend’s car with none the wiser. Being kids and rather naive, we didn’t take the rumor-mill into consideration and by the time we were setting up, a sizable crowd filled the gym eager for some music and when fully half the kids on a 175 student-campus disappear (closed campus), the faculty notices.
     Sure enough, about halfway through our second tune, the school band teacher appeared on stage—we were playing on the gym-floor. Like some bloody prophet making a pronouncement, he raised his hands and boomed out in a deep baritone,
     “If I were you, I’d stop right now. This is all I’m going to say: I would stop if I were you. You have been warned!”
     Typical teens, we stared at him like deer caught in the headlights and when he stepped back behind the curtain and we heard the door close, we, of course, promptly resumed playing. About five minutes later, Elder ‘C’, the principal, showed up with a face looking like thunder and shut us down by first running off the audience with threats of suspension and then threatening to dismantle my drum set himself if I didn’t do it first. As my friend stepped up to shut off the amplifier, he nervously—and unconsciously!–fingered a riff. The Elder came down like a hammer,
     “I said, turn that off! If you don’t want to be suspended, don’t defy me! Turn it off now!”
     The kid apologized and tried to explain it was just a nervous tick, but the Elder ignored him and acted like he’d been insulted.
     Under his stormy brows we grudgingly but quickly closed down our instruments and packed them out to the parking lot.
     I suppose we got off lightly because I don’t remember a phone call home and he probably could have confiscated our instruments for our parents to pick up later.

      So many things about this upset my teenage sense of fairness—things that have stuck with me to my adult present.
     More than anything, it was the hypocrisy of it all that made me feel as if my mouth had been filled with dust. Every week these same teachers in a mandatory-chapel touted how they were there to help us, to guide us, to become the people we dreamed of being because they loved and valued who we were. In reality, however, most of them were too busy trying to assert their authority and ignored the A-Number One Rule Of Working With Teens: as long as you’re genuine, you’ve got an in, but at the first scent of hypocrisy, you’ll be shut out forever. Both the band teacher and the Elder had claimed such sensitivities, but when it came down to it, they chose blind authority rather than the teachable moment.
     From my teenage point-of-view, the school administration had failed even earlier.
     A year before the above incident, the administration had officially endorsed a performance band in which I played drums. One of the interns had agreed to advise the band. We were heavily regulated with plenty of prohibitions on what we could or couldn’t play, but we were excited and worked hard practicing everyday and learning tunes.
     We were given permission to play at one banquet—the Adventist equivalent of a public school dance or prom wherein attendees dressed up, ate a parent catered meal then usually watched a sanctioned Disney flick (but only one deemed “devil-free” because even Walt had some questionable material like “Black Beard’s Ghost” and “Darby O’Gill and the Little People”!)–and absolutely no dancing involved. This time, instead of a film, we would perform. We played the mellowest of Bread, John Denver, Elton John and Barry Manilow. Our peers loved it and we all had a good time. Some of the Elders were less than enthusiastic, of course, but the fact that no one danced, sprouted horns or got pregnant during the whole time we played was indisputable.
     After the banquet, we were riding high on our success and looked forward to playing again, but…nothing came of it. Our adviser wouldn’t organize our next practice and kept putting us off. Without him we couldn’t use the gym or school facilities; indeed, he didn’t seem to want to talk to us about it at all. We went to the principal and asked for help, but were told that our adviser was tired and needed a rest, that we should stop pestering him and that the band had never been a long term proposition anyway. We were devastated. We felt we’d had our hopes lifted only to have them dashed. We had finally played music in a band…not a school band but a real band and now, we were old news and too much of a bother.
     Now, months later, here we were in the gym once again being brushed off and, this time quite literally, hustled out the door. I just didn’t understand how they could endorse playing music with one hand and then take it away with the other, especially considering we were not even remotely playing Ozzy, Black Sabbath or KISS tunes (“Knights In Satan’s Service” according to the Elders—what a crock) but here we were, nonetheless, being threatened with suspension anyway; indeed, if one looks at the Christian Rock scene of today, what we were trying to play was pablum by comparison and about as spiritually toxic as a wet-cracker. If the band teacher in question had only been willing to take a small risk and offered to show us some musical alternatives, we probably would have jumped at it because in the final analysis all we wanted to do was play and make music. Instead we were given proscription and admonition. So much for teachable moments.
     By the time the next year rolled around, I had ceased playing drums altogether and my friend did not return for his senior year. He talked his parents into letting him attend a public school were his love of music was encouraged rather than curtailed.
     The final “head-shaker” came about half a dozen years later when my old yearbook adviser, teacher and mentor (one of the very few instructors at that travesty of a school to warrant the appellation “teacher”) asked me to return to do some artwork for his book. I was blown away when I saw photos of kids holding hands, wearing fashions that would have violated a dozen earlier dress-code policies, and participating in competition sports with other christian schools. I was later told that the school band was now covering tunes in their present line up that had been banned only a few years earlier. Seeing the “what-the-hell-?” look on my face, my former adviser knew exactly what I was thinking and rattled off in his best Bob Dylan, “…the times they are a changin’…”. But not the hypocrisy I guess.

     What disturbed me most during the SSM exercise, however, wasn’t so much what happened or how it was so different from what I’d do as a teacher but how quickly the experience came to the surface as something “I hate…”. That and the realization that though I thought I had dealt with it and put it to rest, it had been lurking beneath the stagnant surface along with its fellows drawing who knows how much energy, emotion, and creativity down to muddy and fruitless death.
     As if to underscore the point, when I couldn’t recall the name of the band teacher, I phoned my sister. She promptly gave me his name. What brought me up short was when she mentioned that he had died in a car accident the same year I had returned to work on the yearbook.
     I hung up in stunned silence. He couldn’t have been more than 35 or 40. I remembered he had had a family, a wife and children. I suddenly felt a deep since of shame and embarrassment at having carried that anger and petty hate around for so long. From 1978 to 2015, for nearly 37 years, a corner of my creative mind had been devoted to my anger for this man, a man, who like myself, made human mistakes, but unlike me, would never have the luxury to unmake them. I saw my anger for the rapacious parasite that it was—a useless program running in the background, consuming life-force and sapping creative energy. Don’t get me wrong, I know there are things we must “…hate…” as suggested above, but this…this was nothing more than a leech-like petty indulgence that had brought about nothing good. What a travesty; what a waste! How much will never be done in my life because I have slavishly chained myself to this millstone? How many other chains have I, like Ebeneezer, forged for myself attached to the memories of the living and the dead?

Holly’s method is initially big on self-examination and identifying problem areas which form roadblocks to a would be-writer’s career. Some of the exercises, like the SSM, are innocuous at first glance but pack a hidden punch when done honestly and with focus. I plan to use it for more than character motivations, details and story lines, but as a dark window to the soul. Through it, I hope I can identify and avoid those hidden and dreadful creatures that threaten my hopes and dreams.
I want to apologize to any readers for being a bit vague about Holly’s course or methods. Considering that her course is how she makes her living, I want to respect that by not going detailing the wherefore’s of her lessons. Readers unfamiliar but interested should go to Holly’s site and research the course. Though the How to Think Sideways class is only offered annually, Holly has other excellent courses of writer-interest on everything from writing a novel series to editing that next draft to developing a ConLang for a particular setting.

HTTS Sitrep 1: The War Has Begun

18 Wednesday Mar 2015

Posted by André J. Powell in HTTS, Writing

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Holly Lisle, How To Think Sideways, teaching, writing

     Despite having done this lesson before, it was an up hill battle all the way.
     Since deciding to re-attempt Holly’s course, I have been beset by potential roadblock after roadblock. Friday the 13th , was appropriately the last day of 3rd quarter—only 48 more school days left, two months! Friday was also the cut off date for seniors to submit the paperwork portion of their senior-portfolios including letters of recommendation and some idiot teacher agreed to do more than his self-imposed limit of ten letters then promptly forgot about it. It came home to roost last week. Not only was I trying to administer final homework and projects—and correct them—but I was writing letters at top spead. I don’t use form-letters. I write real ones each taking about a ½ an hour or more. I inadvertently made an already busy after school even busier. Luckily, I had done half of them previously.
     On Monday there had been a mandatory after-school meeting with representatives of the District Office for those who had been “selected” to burn a week of vacation this year at the Model School’s Conference in Atlanta, GA.
     “A sign of your commitment to this effort will be the purchase of your own airline tickets—do this quickly before prices become too unreasonable. Reimbursement will soon follow…” What makes these guys think I’ve got a spare $600.00 for plane tickets regardless of reimbursement—I mean, hell, they know how much I make. They pay me!
     On Wednesday an all day visit by the county department of school’s ACCESS scholarship committee needed a teacher panel to interview. Guess who got “asked” to be on the panel? Yeppers….they called out the dinosaur. Suddenly I had to prep sub-plans for an extended block period. I do NOT simply say, “read pages 22-35 and answer the questions on page 37”. Any fool can do that. I’m a teacher, not a baby-sitter.
     Teaching seniors has its hazards and the helicopter parents were filling my email with confirmation and counseling requests because Jr. was not getting the grade mom and dad wanted for him—nor was he showing the minimum responsibility I’d like him too.
     Then there were the Tri-annual Review of progress and Present Levels of Performance forms that Resource required to be filled out…”ASAP…” complete with a review of strategies used in the classroom for those students in question. One even required me to connect my accommodations (those based on their recommendations) to State Standards—nothing like having your professional judgment questioned. If these are so damn important, how about a heads up: “…in three weeks Student X is up for his Tri-annual…”?
     And then there was the soft-lock down wherein students had to be moved to a cordoned-off section of the campus while a medical emergency was tended to.
     Oh, yes…did I mention Prom Committee, Student Council and Staff Collaboration meetings, tutoring the needy and a constitution writing consult with the officer of a new pan-high school club? One might wonder where preparing, delivering and cleaning-up after lessons comes in—you know, the thing I was hired to do? So do I, so do I 😦
     Sometimes I’d swear that site and D.O. administration conspire to come up with adjunct duties during quarter’s end and scramble to get grade books settled just to see how much more they can squeeze from us. I suppose I should be thankful that after 24+ years, I’m still light enough on my feet to do the dance, but as a result, I put in a week’s worth of (with the commute) 14 hour days.
     In my next life, I’m coming back as an art teacher—and that’s not a dig at the art department. Those crazy people work hard too, but their grading seems to go a lot quicker than it does for English teachers. I know that the amount of paper comes with the territory, but I must see a stack at least three feet tall every other week!
     What ever possessed me to choose Language Arts? Ah, yes, that must have been that love of literature and writing, which finally brings me around to the point: I did get the first lesson of HTTS done.

     Between work and dinner and sleep, a bagpipe lesson, minimal practice, a chapter or two of my latest read, loving but demanding relatives and a (now three week bout of Bronchitis that leaves my ribs sore and chest rattling) that keeps threatening to become something more sinister, I did it. It took me longer to do the lesson than I’d have hoped…about 10 days rather than a week, but I got it done!
     It might be worth noting how I approach the material. I know it’s too much effort for some, but it is a solid study for myself.
     First I d/l it all—and movies included—and then survey it all noting headings and parts after which I write up a table of contents and goals-and-objectives sheet. I then print lesson materials and place in their own labeled binder. When all is ready, I then read and annotate the lesson, with a highlighter in hand making notes and observations. After this I re-read the lesson while taking reading-notes in my note-book, recording the main points and then responding in note form. Finally I attempt the homework.
     I did not tackle the Quick Fix, the Walkthrough or the Hotseat portions of the lesson, all of which I have dealt with before on my first go round and will revisit in the future. One thing about Holly’s lessons is that they are packed with a serious amount of good solid material but considering the above, I think following Holly’s advice and concentrating on the main lesson is the best strategy for now.
     I did not get to the HTTS forum “First Writing Discussion” though I really wanted to so as to I feel part of the class. I may attempt to do so later on (the day of composition) if I can find time, but a stack of 150+ essays calls to me like a siren that won’t be denied and I’ll have to give them their due. Alas, that is the price paid for concentrating on Holly’s lesson: a Sunday spent grading papers rather than doing personals, convalescing or prepping Wednesdays blog-post.

     What do I want to accomplish with these blogged How To Think Sideways Sitreps? Not to be overly dramatic, but in a very real way, the hosts of Mordor surround the city and Grond is knocking at the gates. I believe, with all my heart, that I’m fighting a battle as grim as any described in the fantasy literature I love. It is a battle against time, my own weaknesses and the demands of a world I’ve created and must somehow recreate. Failure is not an option because I’m not sure I’d have the strength to rally once again. While the aim of the course is to help writers to a career in writing, that goal is so huge, it is too bright for me to contemplate right now. I cannot look into the sun. If I can simply and successfully complete each lesson, then I will consider it victory. What comes after will come.
     These Sitreps are then a battle report, a call to empty space to bear witness, a measure and method of self-accountability that I hope will fortify me to keep my grip and not let go as I have in the past. I will not blame circumstances any more: death in family, sickness, the demands of those without a clue. I am the captain of my fate. I am in charge. In the words of one of my literary characters,
     “The twin edged sword of responsibility means both that I can cut a path through the enemy as well as cut myself, but no matter which, it is I who wield the blade.”
     Sounds grim, doesn’t it…maybe overly dramatic? I know…but that’s because this is just about the most desperate and serious thing I have ever been moved to attempt and so much depends on it.

Lunch the vessel…one…last…time

04 Wednesday Mar 2015

Posted by André J. Powell in HTTS, Writing

≈ Leave a comment

’’I write stories I love.
I connect with the readers who love my work.
I joyfully trade my time and creative ability for payment from those who love what I create.
I take steps each day to live my dream and make it real.
I am a writer.’’

     I have mixed emotions about starting HTTS again as this will be my third attempt since May of ‘12. I don’t know what it is, but I always seem to get stuck or distracted somewhere along the line.
     I am a mythmaker, a world builder and an admirer of Joseph Campbell. I enjoy mythology and am fascinated with the process by which cultures evolve fables and legends. I am a journaleer from way back and enjoy filling quadrangle notebooks with internal dialogue, descriptions, observations, experiences, secrets, snippets of ConLang and the occasional verse. None of which, I’m told, is good fodder for publication. Fair enough, but as a result, I have treated mythologizing, journaling and poetry as guilty pleasures, things that I did in private while under the pressure of…acceptability?…, I attempted to compose more marketable fiction—a strategy that has proven rather fruitless.
     As a high school English teacher for the last 25 years, I’ve described, dissected and digested some of the world greatest literature. I’ve done my best to instill a love of reading and an appreciation for good writing in my students. I’ve read widely. I enjoy ancient history and the classics, but I do love a good yarn and, in light of the above, unabashedly count Tolkien, Howard, Burroughs, Akers, Cornwall, Sutcliff and McCullough amongst my armchair favorites.
     Though apprehensive, I am excited to re-try HTTS along side a stalwart crew of fellow writers—the class of 2015, as Holly puts it. I’m hoping that a group-dynamic might better inspire me to sail-on when the writing-seas get rough or the doldrums set in and encourage me write that epic sword-and-sorcery myth I’ve always wanted to. I hope I can offer a helping hand or a word of encouragement to shipmates in need as well.
     I have a few “…under the bed…” manuscripts in various states of completion. I’ve successfully participated in a few NoWriMo’s, but I have published nothing, indie or otherwise. I have yet to decide on a WIP; I’m not sure whether I’ll try to resuscitate one of those earlier attempts or begin completely anew. Regardless, from this time forward, I will make no more apologies for writing what I love to write. I’m going to take the HTTS Creed above to heart and, along with my classmates, attempt to make a good go of it.
     Time is a commodity I’ll not waste another moment of.

The Eight-Pointed Star

18 Wednesday Feb 2015

Posted by André J. Powell in Retrospection, Writing

≈ Leave a comment

     Forces in my life are at a nexus; the results of the feelings and thoughts and experiences and situations which have been developing within and without for sometime.
     On January 16, Callista crossed over the bridge and now awaits me on the other side. It was the hardest thing I have ever had to do. So very hard, but not as hard, I found afterward, as living without her. I can hardly even think on it. I do not expect anyone to understand how much she meant to me, what an anchor she was. Understand or not, I feel what I feel. Her battle with canine osteosarcoma began in August of 2012 and lasted an amazing two years and four months. Everyday with her was a gift, a treasure I hold in my heart-of-hearts. I hope that when I am stronger, I can do her a fitting tribute and somehow tap with words—and by doing so fully heal—what she truly meant to me. As it is, the grief process has yet to allow for it, though she has come to me in my dreams…
     I believe her death, though a long anticipated eventuality, was an unexpected catalyst of some sort, for my own health has taken a turn. I find myself faced with mortal realities I had never seriously considered before. So many dreams unrealized. So many goals undone. So many desires unfulfilled. Each a call with its own powerful voice. I realize now, with sobering finality, even as the dark-shadow grows within me, that the chances of answering some of those calls are gone. People age. Opportunities evaporate without notice. I can never be young again and those things appropriate and possible at 20 or 30 or 40 no longer are. This is not said with angst or bitterness. Decisions were made. Roads were taken. Songs were sung that cannot be unsung. I accept this, but it is both amazing and sobering to be made aware of it.
     The Voices are strong and they sing with great power, even in my dreams. They have always been there, of course, but I did not listen with mortal ears. I heard with immortal ears.
     “Fool of a Took!”
     Now, they sing in a cacophony of sound that is overwhelming and jarring. So many worries. So many disappointments. So many unforeseen circumstances. As a result I have been paralyzed, unable to answer any of them. I have not been able to write fiction, for example, afraid as I am of making a misstep and sacrificing what time remains only to do exactly that with my indecision. The things I am moved to write…journals, secondary world myths, private prayers…are worthless in the greater scheme of my ambitions, earning the condemnation of writing “authorities”, whose validity though I acknowledge (after all, they are published), frustrates me nonetheless.
     Chaos, the eight pointed star. I feel I am at its center surrounded by avenues, but cannot seem to choose which to take. All that still remain are open, but I understand now I no longer have time enough to take them all. I believe I must swiftly evaluate those voices, make my peace with those that can no longer be and take those that remain and move on for as far I can.
     It is also sobering to realize that when it comes down to its dagger-like point, I am alone in this; no one understands those voices or fully comprehends their demands but me. As a consequence, I must face them alone. No one can choose them for me. No one can navigate them for me. No one can explain them—they are in a language known only to me. If I keep waiting for encouragement, waiting for a response, waiting for “someone” to finally offer a sense of understanding I have no hope or right to expect, then I am simply sacrificing what time I have let on a false altar of self-pity.
     “All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us”
     Gandalf’s admonition to Frodo resonates more strongly with me now than it did when I first read it at 10. This then could be the final battle I must face—to choose which voices to answer and travel their paths alone. For in the end, I alone am accountable. And if I have done all I can with what time I have left, then maybe I can be satisfied I did not waste it all and go to my God with a lighter heart than the one I bear at present.
     The time of decision is now. I must find the bravery and integrity within to acknowledge my present reality, focus on the paths still available and walk them without regret or remorse.

Dog Wrangler

03 Monday Feb 2014

Posted by André J. Powell in Class Room, Disgusted, Writing

≈ Leave a comment

     Nearly all my writing time continues to be devoted to the class-profile project mentioned in my last two posts. Though after my third weekend at it, I am still not done, I have made progress. Amongst numerous interruptions and the need to do certain unavoidable chores—grandchildren visiting and the wash—I got three hours in. Today I hope to make even greater inroads, if not necessarily in an accumulation of hours then in concentrated effort. I hope to have this done sometime this week.
     Once I’m finished with this profile, I can start the second one I was assigned. Yes, a second one, this time for my senior English class. :-P. The silver lining here is that it isn’t an honors class description and thus, not nearly as in-depth or detailed as the one I’m working on right now. Because my honors class is an accelerated class, many of the assignment descriptions are similar to those in the upperclassman senior profile and the chore of describing which Common Core College and Career Readiness Anchor Standard for Reading, Writing, Listening and Speaking they meet has—to a point—already been done. This particular requirement takes a great deal of time if done right and honestly. To have even some of it already done is a boon.
     So…no writing time in sight, but I’m eating my frogs left and right, even if only an hour at a time. Eventually, just like a visit to the dentist, it will be done and over…despite the interruptions.
     Putting this thing together has been a challenge even at the best of times, whether at school or at home, but one would think “at home” would be best. No students to interrupt me, no administrators asking for yet more, no fellow teachers looking for “X” (everything from a cuppa to a lesson plan), no interruptions. Ha! Let me give you an example of the shit that happens around here.
     Yesterday, Marirose brought two of my granddaughters home to spend the night. Mom and dad are in the process of moving and needed some time without the girls underfoot to get things done. I can relate, I thought. On the other hand, hey, they’re my granddaughters and they have Seannair wrapped around their fingers. That being said, it is amazing how much chaos a two year old and a six year old bring with them when they visit. Eventually I had to put on headphones as a sign that “Papa-nair is busy” and with piobaireachd playing, I powered on. After a bit Yai-yai took pity on me and decided to take the girls shopping…brave woman. I was hard at it, headphones still on so I didn’t hear them drive up when they got back.
     The first I was aware of their return was the two year old calling out, “Bella!” Oh, no! I thought and immediately spun around in my office chair. Sure enough, the two year old had opened the front door, which had been left unlocked and Bella The-Run-Away-Wonder-Dog of a few posts ago was out the door like a shot and again at large. Grrr. In the guise of dog-catcher, I’m out the door after her, my granddaughter speaking two-ish to let me know Bella had decided to tour the neighborhood.
     When I got out on the street, she had already gone a block or more. She was smelling hear way along, pushing her nose into hedges and bushes, seemingly deaf to my calls, but every now and then casting a watchful eye my way. I could tell that it was going to be a long chase, because as I narrowed the gap, she’d widen it. Just past a “T” intersection, however, which Bella navigated with aplomb, a situation arose that both slowed her down and alarmed me. On our side of the street, a couple of folk, a man and a woman, were working in their yard and had been watching our approach. Bella is very friendly, so I was hoping she’d stop by to say, “hi!” at which point they might get hold of her collar. Just across the street, however, and approaching fast, was a guy walking his shepherd. Bella had yet to see them, so we were safe for the moment, but I wanted to capture her before she did. Now, you have to understand. I do not appreciate it when folk let their dogs run loose, especially when I’m walking my own and I was pretty sure Bella would make a B-line for the other dog if she saw it and I honestly didn’t know what might happen if she did. At the very least I knew she wasn’t going to look both ways before crossing the street.
     Luckily, Bella turned into the couple’s narrow yard. On one side of the yard was a garage, and on the other was a fence with the yard-working couple near the sidewalk. These worked to funnel Bella to their front door. Aha, I thought, I have you now (if you remember those were Darth Vader’s famous last words from a New Hope—I should have taken it for an omen).
     “Where to go now,” I said as I entered the yard behind her, my back to the street. The man chuckled and moved to a guard position so should she make for his side of the yard, he could lend a hand. I picked a half way point between his garage and where he stood and began to close in.
     Well, Bella, may not be wise but she’s smart. She took one look at her would-be dog wranglers, got our measure and decided to make a break for it. Now we still might have been able to catch her, but as she was approaching us, belly low, mouth open, tongue out, she saw the dog and its walker across the street. Now that dog is fast, but suddenly she got a whole lot faster. Even as I knew it would be like trying to catch a rocket propelled grenade, I turned to the left in an attempt to cut her off. It was no good. She was just too fast. And me? I’m just too fat. I kept spinning was sucked into her wake like a leaf on the wind as she careened past between the couple and me and out into the street, her eyes fixed on the dog walker.
     Everything went into slow motion after that. Cars! My mind screamed. “No! Bella!” I yell and just as I’m about to cast a quick look for any approaching vehicles, praying there are none, it happens. My foot catches on something and I stumble. I try to get my feet under me and surge forward, but it’s no good. My weight tips beyond the break point and trip just as I’m leaving the lawn for the side walk.
     Shit! May-day! May-day! This is the human-zeppelin Sunwolfe! We have lost control and our air-ship is descending rapidly. May-day! May-day! I repeat, we are going down!
     In this sorta outta-body state I watched myself cleare the side walk and the bruising edge of the curb with this stupid vague sense of happiness that I wasn’t going to land there—“concrete is so hard!” Like black top is any better? With a final and instinctual push to right myself, I slammed into the asphalt with all the force of a runaway train. I landed hard on my left side lower chest. Pinned between the blacktop and the full force of my considerable 250 pounds at full tilt, my left arm from elbow to shoulder took most of the impact. Unfortunately it was just like falling on a sharp curb edge. Trapped between my body and the ground, it severely bruised and, I suspect, “cracked” my ribs. My glasses went flying as I continued to slide along the street. Everyone yelled…the couple, the dog walker, a girl with a basket ball across the street—where the hell did she come from?…and me. When I finally came to rest and the world reassumed its normal speed, I felt like I’d been hit by a truck. Dazed I lay there wondering if I’d seriously injured myself.
     The other half of the couple, the woman, told me to lie still as I tried to push myself up. She took after Bella, calling her. I was shocked for a bit, but did a quick subconscious assessment of my bones and then forced myself shaking to my feet much to the man’s consternation. I could hardly breath. Oh, damn I hurt, but the only coherent thought I had was to get Bella away from the dog walker.
     “What is her name?!” the lady called.
      “Bella” I croaked from a bent over position.
     After I said that, everyone was calling her. The dog walker, the couple, the girl with the basket ball. She was probably thinking that she needed to get out more into this nice neiborhood where everyone knew her name and wanted her. Me? I was not calling her. I was thinking about calling an ambulance! Oh, shit, I hurt. The basket ball girl won the come-to-me contest. I’m not surprised as Bella loves kids and young people. I staggered across the street holding my ribs like I’d been shot. I didn’t even think about thanking the couple until later or apologizing for beaching myself in front of their house. I don’t even remember what happened to the dog walker. I think he took a side street in an attempt to get his traumatized dog home as soon as possible—“Babe, you’re not going to believe it! We just saw a blimp crash land down the street! I shit you not. Look how freaked out Jasmin is!”. Ya know, I don’t even remember if his dog barked.
     When I got across the street to the basket ball girl, Bella was trying to lick her face. Please, please, don’t let the evil man take me.
      “Are you alright?” she asked, “I saw you fall. That was bad.”
      “Yeah,” I gasped, still having a hard time breathing. I was beginning to register pain from other places on my body; my knee, my lower leg, my shoulder.
      “Thanks for grabbing her; she loves young people. My granddaughter let her out by accident. She’s a runner—the dog, not my granddaughter.”
      “No problem,” she laughed. “You’re the guy who walks the white three-legged dog, huh?”
      “That’s me…it’s the four-legged variety that kicks my ass. Thanks again,” I took Bella by the collar and began to hobble back across the street.
     I turned back to her one more time.
      “Thanks again, and just so’s you know, I’m not an evil man.”
      “No problem,” she called and went back to dribbling.

     When I got the dog back to the house, I collapsed in a chair in my library. Marirose suggested the ER. I flatly refused the idea. My injuries reminded me of those I’d suffered after a couple of bike wrecks I’d had in the past. From experience, I knew the ER would take hours. They might take X-rays, but more than likely, they would poke and prod me to make sure it hurt, clean my scraps with neosporin for which they would overcharge me horrendously and send me home. I needed to get to my report, so she gave me three ibuprofin and a worried look instead. I took two pills—I hate taking medicine–and sat in the chair for about half and hour after which I cleaned my self up and got back to work.
     I’d only been at it for a half and hour, when Marirose announced that the youngest granddaughter had lost the car keys…or should I say my youngest granddaughter who likes to pretend she’s locking and unlocking doors and who had been given the keys by her Yai-yai so she could pretend to “unlock” the front door out of which the dog ran, had lost the car keys.
     Really?! Really! Really. Yeah, and there it is! Anyway, the kid’s only two, so we didn’t get too much out of her during her interrogation beyond a shrug and a request for chocolate milk. I wisely decide not to mention to my wife that she is somewhat older than two and should have known better than to give a two-year old her car keys and along with my older granddaughter go on a bug-hunt for the keys, she zooming up the stairs, me crawling after her. We found them about half an hour later just as the dryer buzzer went off and it was time to fold clothes.
     With each passing hour, I was hurting more and more and it was getting harder and harder to move naturally. It is amazing how much one uses up abdomen muscles at seemingly unrelated tasks. By this morning, I was a basket case. I type this out of rebellion. My report hovers in the background, but I just need to be a bit creative before I dive in…or before something else happens here. Where are those dogs, anyway?

Dedicated with love to my brother John, A.K.A. The Cat Wrangler

Goal Troubles and Intrusions

15 Wednesday Jan 2014

Posted by André J. Powell in Class Room, Disgusted, Writing

≈ Leave a comment

     Hammering my life into a shape that accommodates my goals and commitments is tough and may even be impossible. Like many of my fellow wannabie-writers, I worked up a 2014 goal list. Though I did not post mine as I thought it looked pretty much like what everyone else was posting, rest assured there are plenty of reasonable goals listed. For example: I will write 1000 to 2000 words, 5-7 days a week, on my present manuscript. After a couple of weeks hard at it, however, I am frustrated to say that I have already met with trouble and have reached only a couple of my targets.
     The challenge boils down to the limited amount of time I have left after my work commitment. My career demands a lot of time, a minimum of nine hours on the job plus a two hour round-trip commute. I rise at 04:00 and try to crash between 21:00 and 22:00. Sans weekends, that leaves me with about five to six hours a day to do everything else. It sounds doable and crunchy, but as any adult knows those half dozen hours are subject to the laws of civilized life which includes everything from attending to bodily functions to having a conversation with the wife. Toss in all the other squishy domestic, social and nuts-and-bolts obligations of adult life and there are really only a couple of hours left in which to address what I ironically consider my most dearly held and important needs: my writing, my music and my health.
     It’s the unlooked for intrusions that really piss me off. For example, I am obligated to update the UC A-G Course Description for one of my classes. In the early years of my teaching career, this was a matter of a page or two. Now, with all the changes to education over the last few years, it has evolved into a document that can clock in at over 20 pages. I’m talkin’ hours of work (the level of detail required by the University of California is almost manic). Where do I get those (unpaid) hours? Yep—that would be the vast amount of sanity-saving, personality-shaping, character-building time I have after everything else is done. Yeah, my writing/music/health time.
     So this is it for the day…these few hundred words: nothing for my manuscript, nothing for my writing course, nothing for my bagpipes, no dog-walk…just this. And then I—what (alarm on my phone is ringing…I shit you not)? LOL…got to run. I forgot it’s Wednesday. I have a Student Council meeting this morning before school starts.
     Yeah, I know: want some whine with that cheese?
     Frustrated.

Good Stuff

17 Tuesday Dec 2013

Posted by André J. Powell in Observation, Revision, Writing

≈ Leave a comment

     At present, I am not a novelist. I am a writer. I have produced manuscripts, some of them very long, but I have not produced a novel despite the mind-altering propaganda-like encouragement to the contrary from the Office of Letters and Light and the NaNoWriMo.
     Why, if I have written manuscripts of up to and beyond 50k-words, am I not a novelist? Because to have a novel, I must have a finished manuscript; what I have is rough draft. I do not have a novel. I have various stories, at various stages of completion. I even have one rough draft that is nearly done…as a rough draft, but I do not have a novel. What I have is an unfinished manuscript.
     To be clear, a finished manuscript is one that has been revised and rewritten to completion, not simply one that happens to have a beginning, middle and an end or one that has only been proofread and edited for spelling and grammar.
     Even though I have been an English teacher for 25 years, even though I have written since I was 10 years old, even though I have taken various courses in creative writing, even though I advise young writers, my rough drafts are most decidedly not novels.
     My rough drafts are certainly not publishable. To become so will require painstaking and multiple revisions, not simply cursory proofreading, but honest changes that make my manuscripts better, more readable, up to snuff and worthy of publication—with tight story lines, empathetic characters and interesting prose that moves a reader onward with euphony and economy. A truly finished manuscript will take rewrite after rewrite, drastic changes, conservative additions and heart breaking deletions; it will take time and effort.
     I will not attempt to publish my present manuscripts via an E-publisher or a vanity-press, I will not send off a query or advocate for them at a conference, convention or weekend-retreat because they are but rough drafts, unfinished, and crap which I have no business muddying up publication waters with. They are “under the bed” stories and essays in the craft, stepping stones toward something greater. I understand that I must not fall in love with my writing and think it perfect or “done”. I will not get over-excited and publish my manuscripts before their time without carefully considering the writer’s craft, what little I know of it and how much I need to learn. I will not use reverse psychology and be taken in by the self-deception that a rough draft is a finished product. I will not confuse proofreading or editing with revision and rewriting. Fitzgerald rewrote This Side of Paradise three times; he rewrote and revised The Great Gatsby almost up the moment of publication. I am not Fitzgerald? Only too true, but I’ll be damned if I’ll seduce myself into believing I can do anything less… or better by simply skimming for bad grammar.
     I love writing. I want to write well. Of course, I want to publish, but I want to publish good stuff, stuff that people will enjoy reading and want to read more of, stuff of quality that will honor and further the craft I love so much.
     At present, I am not a novelist. I am a writer.

Thanksgiving, NaNoWriMo: Days 21 and To The End

06 Friday Dec 2013

Posted by André J. Powell in Family, NaNoWriMo, The Kraters of Ivory and Jet, Writing

≈ Leave a comment

     Thanksgiving…usually a time of great blessing for me. The trial of moving has put a strain on it, however. Hosting it was probably not the best idea, but it gave us a goal of having the house unpacked enough to have guests.
     My mother came over the Tuesday before Thanksgiving and we prepared apples and dough for pies together. I had hoped it would be a transition into a more relaxed holiday mode, but this was not to be. The next day was devoted to getting her to and from the hospital for her biopsy and keeping an eye on her a bit. Time wise, it really amounted to little impact, but the emotions and concerns it stirred were consuming. Wednesday was filled with shopping and cooking, trying to find things that were still packed or packed away, and trying to get a final head-count of who has coming and who was not.
     Thursday morning started out slow, but soon ramped up to full blown stress mode as my wife and I mis-communicated on our definitions of a “clean house.” When the day was finally over, I was glad we had hosted Thanksgiving, but it did not have the satisfying afterglow it has had in the past. Circumstances and miscommunications conspired against it.
     Writing? Are you kidding me? Well…some…very little…but some.

Black Friday—of all the days in the year, I hate this one the most…with a passion, I say. In the United States we have few holidays that are uniquely American….something that stirs a sense of admiration in our international cousins and pride in ourselves. We have the Fourth of July and Thanksgiving. In my opinion Thanksgiving is being conscripted by capitalistic concerns as the beginning of the Christmas shopping season. It was one thing to claim Black Friday, but now major business are opening their doors as early as Thanksgiving morning in an effort to claim the cash. It utterly and completely disgusts me. Another sign of the times.
Autumn is sacred time to me and as far as I’m concerned, Black Friday is a black eye on America’s cultural landscape. Some love it—more power to ‘em. They can have it.

Marirose and I are both creative, she a song writer and musician and I a literati and piobair–piper. In addition to several other obsessions, we both suffer—endure, entertain or indulge, take your pick—an irresistible need for artistic fulfillment. Thus, in addition to service oriented jobs that are extremely demanding, she as a nurse administrator and I as a teacher, on any given day are both off pursuing our particular muse wherever they might lead us. This might include my wife heading to an out of town practice with various band members, partaking in an online “Go-Girl’s” musical support group chat, or scoping out a new venue. For me an early morning writing session, an online bagpipe lesson with my piping-mentor or brainstorming session with sticky-notes and colored pencils would not be unusual. The point is, we are “a-blowin’ and a-goin’” at Iona Céin. Time for slowing down is as much at a premium as it is sacred. Unfortunately we don’t find that time often enough.
The odd thing is that with two such creative people living together, one might think we’d give each other time to be creative without interruption. This is most definitely not the case, but rather than wade into that morass of volatile tar here and now, I’m going to save it for a future post.

Winter and Christmas are coming. I dread that holiday most of all. Probably because of how its more contemplative bent has been bent all out of sorts and reformed into one huge season’s long commercial. Yesterday was the staff party. As usual I did not go. The emails of “if you are going send your money…” really turn me off. This weekend is the Student Council party…I can hardly stand that: “Remember, don’t spend more than $15.00 on the gift exchange…”
Why not, “…we’re getting together to play games, build gingerbread houses and watch “Home Alone”, “It’s a Wonderful Life”, “White Christmas” or “A Christmas Carol” while we stuff ourselves with homemade goodies. Wanna bring a dish and partake?” No frackin’ gift exchange. No frackin’ entry-fee. No frackin’ money required. You wanna exchange somethin’? Make a homemade card and actually write something thoughtful on it for a change! God, I hate Christmas.

     Sick time.
     If you can’t tell, I’m sick. As in ill. Maybe the other way too. Almost very year I get sick with a heavy cold right around Thanksgiving. Last year was an exception. This year the bug waited a few days until after I was back in school to strike. Monday after vacation, mid-morning, I got that itchy feeling in the back of my throat that got steadily worse throughout the day. I have no clue how long it will hang on. It steadily gets worse and worse and then, typically, after a week or so, begins to lighten up. I can usually feel it gradually releasing its death-grip on my throat as it leaves. Today is but day four. The croups are yet to come.
     Needless to say writing creatively is not something I find myself particularly inspired to do. I’d rather sleep. I will, however, soldier on. Even if it means but a paragraph a day. I will write.

NaNoWriMo: Days 16 – 20

21 Thursday Nov 2013

Posted by André J. Powell in NaNoWriMo, Writing

≈ 3 Comments

     I think I hit the wall last night. The “service engine soon” light suddenly coming to life on the dashboard, like some glowing harbinger of doom, was the capper. Barring a miracle, my NaNoWriMo attempt for ‘13 is done.
     I said I wasn’t going to do this, but before I hoist the white ensign, I’ve got to “see” and confirm the reasons behind the gesture. The list includes: moving—setting up, down sizing and repair (still an ongoing project); losing the dog—finding the dog; mom’s sudden medical issues; extra work duties (read WASC report); family birthday obligations (we love to birth our children in the months of October and November); Thanksgiving planning, prep, delivery and clean up (yep, I’m the host) and now the car with all its pending how-to-get-it-to-the-garage-and-still-get-to-work-an-hour-away juggling. So if my 11,650 word count wasn’t a clue, the rest certainly is—I think I’m pretty much toast.
      “Strike the colors, Mister Sunwolfe.”
     I’m not going to call it a complete bust, however. Though the word count is measly, I have written everyday and re-laid the foundations of a daily writing discipline. I made real progress on my latest manuscript and will continue to do so until it is done. I reconnected with some fellow writers and hope to stay in touch for encouragement’s sake. I gained powerful tools and insights from NaNo pep talks and fellow writers. I believe these things alone made the experience, however truncated, worth the effort.
     I still plan to participate to the very end, post my meager progress, cheer on my NaNo-mates and enjoy the last week of the event keyboarding with one hand while noshing a turkey leg with the other.
     In the meantime, anyone know a good mechanic?

NaNoWriMo: Days 8-15

16 Saturday Nov 2013

Posted by André J. Powell in NaNoWriMo, Writing

≈ 1 Comment

It is foolish to expect more from those around you than they can reasonably deliver. The key is knowing what is reasonable and what is not. Balance then, between hope and apprehension, is all.
~Helin Tshamis D’kur Uliekin

My nightmares are ferocious. Their ferocity can be gauged by how close the dream world and the waking world are. The closer the twain, the harsher the nightmare. I feel alien afterward…as if a bit of the ‘otherness’ is now part of me and I am a stranger to this world.

It is a distinct probability I will not “win” this year’s NaNo. I’ll not go into the litany of obstacles typical of many a fledgling writer’s blogs. Suffice to say that baring circumstances, I’m rather disappointed in myself because that’s where the ultimate responsibility lies. Though I still have the approaching Thanksgiving Holidays to look forward to, if these past less-than-1000-word-days are any indication, I’ll not expect more from them than I can deliver.
This is not to say there is no hope (curse it). If nothing else, the NaNo helped jumpstart a writing routine that had been long on the verge and nearly derelict. Though I was writing—like now; this blog entry—all my manuscripts had stalled. Even this present NaNo manuscript is progressing in but fits and starts and I’m not very excited about writing it. I am, however, tired of not making it to the Rough-Draft finish line. Once there, I can cast about for inspiration, but I sense that it will take more than a few lucky sessions at the butt-crack-of-dawn and/or good ideas to get the process running smoothly and reliably again, but it’s a (re)start and I count that as a victory.

     The bookcases are in and (may my wife’s name be forever exulted) built, so this weekend’s projects include getting the Library in order. And with that, save for the garage—that black pit of despair, every room in the house is livable. There might be a box here or there, tucked away in the corner or temporarily misplaced on a shelf, but essentially we will be moved in. What genius scheduled a move to culminate during NaNoWriMo?
     I have not named the house yet. I may decide to keep “Iona Céin” for as my daughter pointed out “…a rental is your house, what you put in it is your home…”. Home is my family and the material and sub-cultural constructs that are the results of that expression. This rental is simply a shell I am presently constrained to encase it in.
     I’ll think on it more. Maybe the dream world can serve up some inspiration to season it’s terror.