The Pyrenees---Southern France

The Pyrenees---Southern France

Saturday, February 26, 2011

What's in a Name?

          I love when a post prods me to go to my book shelf--or even better--compels me to write.  The writing inspires me to trot off, on a mission, to find the something I'm looking for...

         Yesterday Donna Volkenannt's blog, among other things, got me thinking of first lines of books.  Donna is asking for you to share some of your favorite first lines. If you haven't done so already, do so. 

        I always look at the first line of a book before I buy it.  Sometimes it doesn't immediately hook me, but if I already love the author, I'm willing to go on the journey anyway.  Most of the time, however, if I make the purchase, it's because that initial line sends me off into a much-desired direction, or it intrigues me to the point that I must know where it leads... 

A Tale of Two Cities        When commenting on Donna's blog, I included that I loved Dickens' first, paragraph-long sentence from Tale of Two Cities.  Com'on.  You know you want to join in with me..."It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness..." (and that's only half of it).



       Also, I quoted Barbara Robinette Moss' first line from her brilliant and moving memoir Change Me into Zeus's Daughter. This was an author I was unfamiliar with.  I remember vividly picking this book off the shelf, looking at the first line, being held hostage--with that sentence jabbing me in the back---until I paid for the book and started reading it, completely immersed.

     "Mother spooned the poisoned corn and beans into her mouth, ravenously, eyes closed, hands shaking."

      I just had to know why the woman was eating something poisoned while she was obviously being watched by her child/children. I figured she was bent on killing herself, but no, that's not where the story leads...(Buy the book or borrow it from the library. It's a worthwhile read.)


  Change Me Into Zeus's Daughter     

       I also love Mary Karr's first line in her memoir Lit.  After the prologue. When the story really begins...

       "Age seventeen, string-haired and halter-topped, weighing in the high double digits and unhindered by a high school diploma, I showed up at the Pacific Ocean, ready to seek my fortune with a truck full of extremely stoned surfers."
Occasionally I turn to the last page and read the last line. Of course, I'm taking the risk of sabotaging myself.  But it's like the bread that makes a sandwich. If it's spongy white Wonderbread that holds the story together, I'm not interested. However, if it's hearty, coarse bread with a thick, crunchy crust, baked in a brick oven (in southern France!  Make it bread baked in France!), then I'm gonna take a bite and start chewing...

       ("Okay.  Enough with the on and on moaning about first lines and now---Geeze---salivating over bread.  Your post's title was "What's in a Name?"  Stop digressing.  Get back to the point you began with.)

       Donna's post got me thinking about the fact that sometimes, it's the title that gets me excited. Usually it happens with books that I use with my third graders.  And just like I bought Change Me into Zeus's Daughter just because I fell in love with the first line, I also bought this intermediate book simply because of the title: No More Dead Dogs.  (And no, it's not a depressing book about the death of a dog. In fact, it's funny.)

      So, share with Donna some of the best first lines from books you have collected on your bookshelf.  And share with me the book titles that have most intrigued you.  What titles have lit you on fire?

Lit: A Memoir (P.S.)

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

I Remember...

         I admit it. Any time I can slip in an ellipsis, I do.  So, when I saw Barb's memoir piece on her blog, I pounced on it. Not because I wanted to share a part of myself via a piece of writing. No, I knew that I would have the opportunity to slip in an ellipsis (or six) if I wrote a "I remember" piece.  So here goes...


photo by Stephanie Whitehead


      I remember going on vacations in the Falcon station wagon, a flyswatter flailing back at us when we got too loud, and eating picnic lunches along the way...

      I remember falling in love with James Taylor, lipsyncing to Carole King, and taping David Cassidy's picture all over the basement wall...

      I remember learning about apartheid through Alan Paton and the French Revolution through Dickens and about Kent State and Woodstock because of Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young. And I remember discovering that a thirteen-year old girl has no chance of winning the heart of a God of an English teacher...

     I remember giving birth to a beautiful daughter at home--in my own bed--and afterward, having cake and coffee with the doctor...

     I remember going to France for the first time. Four hours for dinner, shooting off the top of champagne bottles into the woods so "champagne trees" could grow, and wishing I could stay forever...

     I remember my life changing with a couple of messages in my in box. The discovery of a sister I never knew about. The news that, yes, someone other than me saw value in my stories...

     I remember, and now that I am past middle-aged, I grasp my memories tighter with every advancing year...



      What do you remember?  And you have my permission---go crazy with the ellipsis...

   

Monday, February 21, 2011

A Funeral for an Enemy

        After reading Pat Hensley's post about teachers and students who feel defeated before they even begin a task, I unearthed a memory of a funeral several years ago.

        I was teaching fourth grade then. It was October, I believe, and my students comments were regularly peppered with "I can't..."  They couldn't figure out how to solve the math problem.  They couldn't figure out how to make trees for their shoebox scene.  They could not add any more details to their story.

        I got tired.

       Of course, I had my own "I can'ts" but they remained buried...unspoken.

       So, in an effort to end the whining, I had everyone (even me) write down all the things they could NOT do on little slips of paper.  I borrowed a shovel from our custodian, and we all walked outside, had a "funeral" and buried our "I can'ts."  

       From that point, none of us were allowed to say, "I can't."  After all, it was dead. Buried under the ground. No longer breathing...


photo from the queen of subtle

       As writers, as artists, there are many times we try to convince ourselves that we're incapable of doing something.   I can't carve out some time for writing this weekend---I'm too busy.

I can't rewrite this so that I can resubmit it.

I can't win this contest...I don't have a chance.

        I have a big "I can't" revolving around how often I write.  I keep wrestling with it, but the self-defeated attitude wins most of the time.

         Perhaps it's time for another funeral...