A Story is Not a Story is Not a Story

 

 

In my intermediate narrative writing class, our professor asked us a very basic question this week, "What is a story?"

I of course went immediately to one of my favorite resources, my 1891 Webster dictionary; well first I went home then I pulled out the dinosaur of a dictionary. It's not exactly portable, taking a strong constitution and a hoyer lift to maneuver it, but it is a solid riot to page through.

Mr. Webster first defined story as it related to a building then he addresses the craft and wrote, "To tell in historical relation, a narration or recital of that which has occurred." He does not mention writing or specifically recording the events of a story, instead focusing on the telling, the "recital."  I have to wonder, was this definition speaking primarily of those who sat around the hearth in the midst of a small audience and recited their stories, accompanied by gestures, facial expressions, and voice variations? This definition reminded me of the stories my own father would tell us at bedtime or around the pile of burning leaves in the fall. He never read from a book or magazine; instead his stories were created as he went along, weaving us kids in and out of the paths woven spontaneously within his own head.



Fabulous ink drawings in Websters 1891 dictionary

We loved those stories, and although my father was probably not aware of the term, "seanachai" the ancient gaelic word for story teller, he certainly fit the description.

Webster's 124 year old definition was matter of fact. It mentions nothing about what the content of a story should include such as truth, fact or fiction; but instead, it focuses on the technique, "To tell in historical relation a narration or recital of that which has happened."

Apparently, in 1891, if someone told you a story, it was automatically deemed valid, accurate.

Compare that definition to Webster's revision as written in 1970. The book changes it's definition to, "The telling of a happening or connected series of happenings whether true or fictional. "Notice how part of the definition remains intact, "The telling..." focusing again on verbalization of events, but now it includes the possibility that the story may or may not be true. I remember last semester when the TA in my first narrative writing class told us that good liars make the best story tellers. I do agree with that statement but find it interesting that historically the two, liars and storytellers, were not always synonymous.

In 1993, Webster degrades (or is it elevates?) the craft further when story is defined as, "Account of events often fictitious, a lie." Take it one step further with todays internet description which defines story as: an account of incidents or events, a fictional narrative shorter than a novel, the intrigue or plot of a narrative work, a news article or broadcast, anecdote; especially an amusing one. They certainly want to cover all the bases don't they?


What is most interesting is that within that same definition they list the following words in bold capital letters: LIE, FALSEHOOD, LEGEND, ROMANCE.

My deduction from all of that is therefore all news reports, broadcasts and articles must therefore be purely fictional. Something I've suspected for years.

Taking all of that into consideration and reflecting upon the hundreds and hundreds of stories I've read, the handful of stories I've written, I say this. A story is a report of events wearing a pretty dress or an ugly suit or draped in torn blankets reeking of urine, age and garbage from the dumpster behind the apartment house on Ashland Avenue. A story must be better, (richer, sadder, happier, funnier, filthier) than a report, or why would we want to read it?


Thanks a million for reading. Now go write something. Comments are always appreciated.

Summer School at National University Ireland

In just 5 short months I intend to be sitting in a classroom at NUIG (National University Ireland Galway.) If all goes well I'll be taking two courses: Creative Writing: Fiction and Poetry as well as Gaelic Culture and Literature during a four week session.  I will also take a not for credit class in Irish Language. I've always wanted to learn more about the language of my ancestors besides the Pog Ma Thoin (kiss my arse) phrase I was taught by B and B owner Mary in Thurles circa 1999.

The process of getting to NUIG though has been intensive and time consuming. There were various applications to complete, including potential scholarships for funding, as well as reference letters to gather, a search for accommodation (going well due to an ad in the Galway Advertiser, thank you Lorna and Mona) deposits to make, etc...But this "mature student" is also an obsessive list maker and form creator so all should be well.

Before I was even accepted to UIUC (University of Illinois Champaign) about this time last year, I knew I wanted to study abroad in Ireland. I understand there are multitudes of excellent authors all over this planet and I will continue to read as many of them as I can in my lifetime, but the Irish writer tugs at my heart.

One of my sons made the comment, "You know you're just going for the sightseeing." Funny, how little he knows his mother. I have no desire to kiss the Blarney Stone again. Been there, done that, still wearing the Guinness stained t-shirt, no... this time will be different, better. I suppose in his defense he knows me as much as I knew my own mother. We offspring have this tendency to see our parents as we wish them to be or as they wish only to show themselves to us, so really; do we ever know them? Do we know anything of their heartaches? Their dreams? What they felt were their most momentous accomplishments or deepest, darkest regrets? Did they really like our paper mache ashtray we made them for Mother's day?

My parents Donald and Thelma O'Shaughnessy on their
wedding day in 1956 with my grandparents
Josephine and Thomas O'Shaughnessy
and their daughter Teresa

During my school break I have been sorting through old black and white photos of my parents and grandparents wishing desperately and regretting deeply that I did not ask the questions of them back then which I seek now, after they are dead of course, ashes well spread. Why did I not ask my grandfather about his father, George J. O'Shaughnessy, the one who first left Ireland in 1872?  Did he ever have contact with his family again? Where was he born? What did his parents do when he left? How did they survive that loss? Did they survive that loss? Did he ever make them a paper mache ash tray?

My grandfather was 83 when he died and I was 17. There was indeed time for me to ask these questions of him, to learn more about his father who braved the long voyage across the sea at the age of 14 with only his 12 year old younger brother for company. But I was instead wrapped up in so many other more important things: the next Foghat concert, my 1969 Nova, my ridiculous boyfriend with the bad imitation of Elvis hair. I am at times haunted by how fast my own life is careening past me. I feel driven to record my life, my parents life, my grandparents life so that the next generations, when they run head first into the middle age wall of reality, will have more information about their past.

Which is why I am going to NUIG. To learn about Irish writers FROM Irish writers, to immerse myself in that which fills me up; sky and sea, a stony burren, cold winds, warm rains, friendly familiar faces, pints in pubs instead of bars and of course, the written word.

It's All Gary Cooper's Fault

I speak of Gary Cooper the poet, not the actor. It was his scrawl I found in the back of a journal I had kept as a class requirement back in 1981, which served as one of my motivations to return to school. The journal was a requirement of my Intro to Poetry course at Black Hills State College in Spearfish S.D.  I was 22, married and the mother of a newborn and a 14 month old.

I have never been a typical student.

Each day we were to write in this journal, anything at all, whatever we wanted, but we had to write; his purpose I assume was dedication to the craft. At the end of the semester after reading my whines about struggling to study while nursing one babe and keeping track of another, about working part time while being in school full time, about pure claptrap drivel related to meals cooked, judgmental in-laws, imperfect parents (my own) Mr. Cooper wrote the following in my journal:

 

He planted the seed that has sprouted, been stepped up, sprouted again, allowed to shrivel up and nearly die and then finally this past year, was resurrected. It proves once again the power of the written word. I've recently tried finding him online, to let him know that his efforts did indeed impact one of his students, but so far no luck.

I used to attend his class with a tiny (not really, he weighed over 10 pounds at birth) infant snoozing in a carrier parked next to my desk. I would nurse this child in my car, putting him to sleep, carry him inside and attend class. This oldest son of mine, child number two, was content to drowse and occasionally gurgle through readings of Dylan Thomas, Plath, Frost, and Yeats. Now at 33 this child is the most reflective of my four and the deepest in thought at times. But what can I expect? While other parents of the 80's were  exposing their wee babes to Sesame Street, mine literally listened to the soul wrenching work of Sylvia Plath as he drifted in and out of his breast milk coma.

No, he is not a poet now, instead he works in the financially secure world of electrical technician, but I did not recognize my own affinity for this art form until well into my 50's so perhaps his love for the genre will reemerge later down the road as well. Or not. Still, I am convinced that we are not born poets. We do not attend one class, read one book, or take a national poetry license exam to be deemed "POET."

Rather I believe it is a process and forgive if I throw in the overused sentimental term of "journey," but it applies. Two women in my family, my grandmother Josephine Conklin O'Shaughnessy and her mother Mary Ann Kirwan Conklin, were published poets so it might be argued that genetically I am predisposed to prose. Hmmm...Predisposed to Prose...Now that would make a cool t-shirt. Anyway, although I always enjoyed reading it, I only wrote  a smattering of poems in my teens and twenties, virtually none in my thirties and forties (too busy writing nursing policies, yawn) but now have jumped back in head and pen first in my fifties.

The timing is just right I suppose. I returned to school this past fall, taking my second intro to poetry class with a keen instructor and fellow classmate poets, and then a few weeks ago a cousin of mine sent me an amazing gift: the two original poetry books of my grandmother and great grandmother. One written in the 1950's and the other little blue one, in 1884.  Coincidence? Probably, but I plan to run with it anyway.

 

 

 

I'll focus on both those books later and give them the attention they deserve., but in the meantime; tell me about the poetry that moves you or doesn't and why you write it or don't. And if know Gary Cooper from BHSU,  tell him I said hello and thank you.

Workshop Me and I'll Workshop You

I am quite embarrassed that I have not posted on this, my writers blog, in over three months. Well that nonsense stops here and now.

I started this blog to bring blog followers along for the road trip as I learned new things in the creative writing program at The University Of Illinois Champaign, but then I actually started classes at UIUC and my whole world got turned on its wide arse. Unaware of what a "workshop" entailed at the college level generally, at the creative writing level specifically, I enrolled in three of them, plus an American Novel class which required large amounts of ...now get this...essay writing AND novel reading! Imagine my surprise. Class room time plus commuting time plus homework time plus full time farm business time almost did me in.

Now though in our 9th week of classes, I have a very slight handle on what is required of me time wise (compared to having no handle on any of it at all those first weeks) which brings me back here to ground zero, blogging about the process of writing.

For those of you new to the above topic as I was, workshoping is the process of writing text, be it poetry, short fiction or creative nonfiction and then distributing copies of your work to your peers, who then read it, analyze it, critique it, mark it, use it for hot pads (I only did that once) and make suggestions for improvement. They also, if you are as blessed as I have been, will give you positive feedback.

All of my current class peers are 3 or more decades younger than I am and I worried, really worried that I could write anything they might be able to relate to and I will admit, arrogant quinquagenarian that I am, that I wondered what they could write about that would interest me.

Turns out...plenty...from both sides.

Here is how it works for my Intro to Narrative Writing class. Our instructor spent weeks teaching us the basics and assigning great example stories to read. Then we were set loose. Our first short story was to be 15-20 pages. We turned them in, she copied them and we took them home. Three stories at a time to read and be ready to discuss in our next class. We must annotate or write on the story pages themselves and then write a one page summary letter. On the day the stories are  discussed, each student tells what worked well for them in the text and what did not while the story's author listens and takes notes. When everyone has spoken the author is allowed to ask questions or answer some of the reviewers questions and then everyone hands in their letters and the annotated story to the writer. Our instructor also gets a copy of the peer review letter.

Although it can be daunting to think about that many people judging your work all at one time, the process is extremely, let me say that again, extremely beneficial. For example, if 5 of them mention that your character development of the younger brother in your story is weak, then it probably was. If 7 of them say your imagery was fabulous then you might be on the right track with that technique.
The process is very civilized and a huge bang for your educational buck in my opinion. The best part though is that YOU, the author decides what advice to keep and what to toss. You maintain the control but generally a well run workshop where positives and negatives are balanced in intent and approach, will motivate you to revise your story and make it the best it can be.

This of course means more writing, which would explain why we call ourselves writers. Yup, my peers said the same thing. I have a real talent for stating the obvious.

Dazed and Bemused, I am Ready for School.

 

Bad Photo, good book. Just one of the many required

 textbooks I found at Goodwill.org

 

I have about 30 days left.

Then with the grace of God, a full Partridge Family backpack, a compass, a slate board and some chalk plus a few coins to call home in case I get lost...I go back to school. I am ready, really, really ready. Except that I am having a difficult time remembering to exhale after I inhale I am THAT excited.

After years of talking but not walking I am finally entering the Creative Writing program at the University Of Illinois, Champaign, a major within the English department, which is a part of the Liberal Arts and Sciences College.

I'm not telling you all that to impress you, rather it is more of a pneumonic device for this quinquagenarian so I don't show up at Butts Road Primary school instead. Hey, don't blame me for the schools name. Talk to the state of Virginia.

None of this back to school stuff seems quite real. Especially when any U of I notices I receive in the mail are snuggled up next to the AARP brochures demanding I join now or they will revoke my senior discount at Dennys.

Like I would ever let THAT happen.

But even though it's not all sunk in yet I am indeed looking forward to academia. I was actually giddy last week picking out notebooks for my five courses, a different color for each subject, I mean class, I mean course, when it dawned on me that college students may not take even take pen/paper notes anymore. They probably just put those notes right on their laptop, or I-pad or padtop or I-lap.

Wait! What if the teachers, I mean instructors, I mean professors, don't allow pen and paper in the classroom? What if they require all the notes to be entered on electronic devices only? What if I am supposed to have some micro-recording device in the heel of my shoe that will automatically turn on the second I sit down and relieve the pressure of middle age spread from the heel of my orthopedic-velcro-secured-Easy Spirit oxfords?

What if I fart in my chair?

Oh please, it could happen. My sphincters are not the rock stars they were in the 70's. It's just that the possibilities for total embarrassment loom large. I am in fact one undergrad in a sea of  32,000. How could I not stand out?

Ok, so I make a spectacle of myself. So what? At 55 dying of embarrassment is not nearly the tragedy it is at age 13. I've already made a mix tape of the music to be played at my funeral. Basically anything I do to bring shame to myself on Monday will be forgotten by later that same day anyway.  It's interesting how my attitude is so very different now than it was in Carters time. Back then I was too cool to attend any orientation sessions, whereas now I've gone to three.

I probably didn't need to attend the orientation for the new university groundskeepers but I am totally into zero turn mowers so I thought what the heck?

Back then I did not bother to find my classes before the semester started but I did draw a map of all the fraternity locations on the bottom of my feet. You know, for those moments when you just have to lay down and rest...on the Quad...for two whole days.

Now, I know 5 weeks ahead of time, each of the buildings my classes are in and next week I'll drive the 60 minutes to campus and actually walk to all the rooms. The week after that I will most likely time myself walking from the hall, into the room, to my seat of choice so I know exactly how long it takes to get from classroom to classroom AIS. (For those of you not schooled by the Sisters of Perpetual Critiscism as I was, AIS means ass in seat)

Back then, I attended class willy nilly. I did not attend my botany, speech, algebra, composition or biology classes. Willy Nilly required no papers, no tests, no finals. I loved that class. Imagine my shock (without awe) when called into my counselors office to be told Bye Bye. Seems a negative GPA was frowned upon. They took off additional points for the protest tables I had set up outside the classroom. I was very opposed to snail racing at the time.

Now, I plan to attend every course every day and maybe even skip lunch and sit in on the class again later that same afternoon. I plan to sit up front instead of sitting in the back writing love letters to David Bowie. I plan to take notes on my rotary phone, copy them onto my I-lap and save up all my Green Stamps so I can buy the 17 year old genius tutor I'm sure to need by week three.

I am planning to go back to school.

Dream Beta Reader

 

I am freakish in that I enjoy feedback on my writing.  Not the usual, "Oh my, are you sure you're not Harper Lee's daughter?" malarkey when I just read To Kill a Mockingbird for the first time this past week (an appalling admission I know) but rather the honest, hard hitting, and valuable type of feedback that is a rare but treasured gift.





I was recently the recipient of such a review and I'm still giddy over it's generosity.

A few months ago I distributed the first three chapters of my novel The Child Clare to several select individuals. They were "select" in that they did not roll their eyes or cough nervously when I asked for their input.  Some were friends and a couple were relatives. One, a valued blog buddy in Ireland, did an excellent job of helping me see how a non-American audience might view my work.

 All of my readers returned comments and suggestions but surprisingly, the individual who knew me least, or so I thought at the time, returned the most extensive and useful review/critique. In fact, her input was spread over several detailed pages. One page of comments and suggestions for every page of text for just my first chapter. She continues to work on chapters two and three.

Before I go any father let me make one thing absolutely Dingle Crystal clear. I will not, under any circumstances, threats of harm or promises of cash share the name of my Dream Beta Reader. She is mine and mine alone and you may not have her and to further protect her anonymity she will from this sentence forward be known only as Scarlet.

Because Scarlet is one groovy name, that's why.

Now Scarlet and I go way back. We were good friends in high school, we swooned over many a Neil Diamond record, yes...I said record. Then we grew up and lost touch. About a year ago we connected again on Facebook and the rest is Dream Beta Reader (DBR) history.

I will admit when I first peaked inside the package she sent and viewed my first chapter slashed up in crimson, I thought there had been a serious vegetable cutting incident in her kitchen. But when I realized the red blotches actually spelled words...I calmed myself.

I put the document away for a few days, not unlike a present you receive wrapped in gold paper and a cream velvet ribbon, too striking to ruin by opening. I wanted to have plenty of time to really absorb it's contents. Finally, I took that time and a cold beer and settled in to read her comments.

I was not disappointed. Scarlet was tuned in and serious about my characters from page one. She held me accountable for actions I promised or even implied a character would take and did not let up until I followed through. She was akin to a hog with a scone.

An example: In the very beginning, my protagonist reminds herself to touch up her lipstick before meeting her escort, and yet it was several pages before I returned to that detail. Scarlet picked up on that right away. Did my character forget the lipstick? Why had she not yet applied the lipstick? Did I forget the lipstick? WHAT HAPPENED TO THE LIPSTICK?!

It was this intense concentration, this demand for detail and follow-through that makes Scarlet shine as a DBR. She maintained this level of involved scrutiny throughout chapter one and made me quickly realize, she would not suffer fools and I best up my game.

Like the final page of Anne Enright's book The Gathering, I was borderline weepy to see Ms. Beta Readers comments come to an end. But I worked through that grief and the next day I began incorporating several of her suggestion in my, dare-I-say-it, sixth revision of The Child Clare. My preferred editing spot is now a damp piece of musky earth under our rural mailbox where I write and wait for DBR's wisdom on chapters two and three to arrive.

Thankfully it is summer here in Central Illinois and our rural mailbox is free of snowdrifts.

Printers Row Lit Fest Chicago. Not to Be Missed.

I attended the Printers Row Lit Festival  for the first time three years ago and was blown away not just by the sheer number of (big surprise) books, at this event (thousands and thousands, old, new, used and abused) but by the multitude of opportunities which bang into you as you round each booth.

Authors, printers, agents, publishers, TV and radio personalities, book store owners, and college representatives all within reach for an attendee to ask questions of, take cards from, inquire about, or just to learn more about how not to end a sentence in a preposition with.

This years 30th Anniversary festival lasts two days, June 7 and 8th, and takes place in several blocks around Dearborn and Polk Streets known as the Publisher Row Neighborhood, the South Loop section of the city once inundated with multiple publishing companies. Seeing the building architecture alone in that area is well worth the trip.

In addition to the plays, live music, poetry reading, book hawkers, food and drink concessions, the festival brings in a large number of celebrity authors who either participate in discussion groups, interviews or their own presentations. The festival itself is free to attend, you can just walk right into the midst of the streets blocked off with hundreds of vendors but some of the author driven sessions require a pre -paid ticket. These tickets go on sale tomorrow May 27 and can be purchased on line.

To sort though some of these events and to purchase tickets just click HERE.

The Printers Row Lit Fest is very family focused with numerous events and entertainment for future writers and publishers of all ages but keep in mind the following:

**The Lit Fest gets PACKED with people. Being an ex-pat of Chicago I have no problems with crowds but if you do I suggest you take your full dose of Ativan on that day.

**Bring cash. Small bills are best and change as some vendors are not set up for plastic. Don't worry about pick pockets as there is good security evident. Just keep your moola close to your body. Well, as long as you have a middle aged multiple child birth body like mine that pick pockets tend to avoid just on principle, keeping it close to your body is as good as carrying a metal safe around your neck.

**Bring your business card to distribute to other authors, possible agents and publishing companies. Do not slap some of your return address stickers on post-its and call it good. Future contacts will call that trash.

**Dress casually, wear real shoes. You'll be walking, going up and down stairs within some of the buildings if you attend any presentations. This week in June is almost always hot in the city and since it's unlikely they will open up the fire hydrants like they used to when I was a kid on north Ashland you should wear hot weather clothing. Funky hats are always popular.

Photo: New England Journal Of Aesthetic Research

**Bring a large tote bag to carry all the books you'd better buy, business cards, water bottle and maps.

**Come early Saturday morning (by 8am) and you will have no trouble parking. The event does not start until ten but before the other crowds arrive you can enjoy the coffee shops and walk the neighborhood scoping out the best vendors as they setup for the day.