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... 

        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.)

       

       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?

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...

   

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...

Questions to Ponder...

         This evening on the radio (heard while I was hurtling down the highway) a horrific tidbit spewed out over the airwaves.

         Ladies, please pay close attention. This information will change life as you know it:

If you are size 8 or larger, you are "plus size." *
                                                   * (according to the fashion industry)

         So, while you are wallowing in a mixing bowl full of ice cream, followed by a mashed potato chaser, here's something else to add to the depressing funk.

          Check out the back label of the granny panties you're wearing. What size is it?

        The underwear I wear is labeled XL (or "grande."  Do they think that makes it more "festive" and fun?).

         Now, most of my blogging buddies have not seen what I look like but trust me, I have a big butt.  It's not big in the Jennifer Lopez-Beyonce way.  It's big in more of the slow moving-truck-hogging-up-the-highway-with-its-wide-load-sign way.  It's flat and broad. 

photo by flickrway

       Every time I see that "XL" inked onto the back of my bloomers, it makes me wonder.  Yes, I know my rear has spread in a cellulite version of imminent domain, but I know there are lots of rears that are larger than mine.  Lots.  (Just watch Jerry Springer to see some especially fine specimens.)

        And that's when I start wondering.  Underwear has a number size (I'm not telling you the number that I wear) as well as the "XL/Grande." What do the larger sizes say if my butt (a median butt, with an extra dollop or two thrown in) is "Grande"? 

           And when did we start viewing women that are a size 8 as huge?
       

Mad Talking, Soft Talking, Fast Talking

           Just after reading the first forty or so pages of Writers at Play by Mary Adler, I'm already hooked.  In the first chapter, it advocates providing opportunities for young writers to "play" with words, while balancing their need for a bit of structure and focus.

           Adler includes an exercise from a book called Inside Out. It seems like it would be a great activity to do if you want to get a handle on a character, and could be part of the work at the backend, or could even be expanded to become a short piece that stands on its own.

photo by DoodleDancer

               "Mad Talking---Write a response to a person, thing or situation that makes the character angry.

              Soft Talking---Write so that the character comforts a suffering person or thing (an animal, a stuffed animal, even an inanimate object, such as an old car).

              Fast Talking---Write to convince someone to do something or believe something. Have the character win them over."
  
                                                                       ---Mary Adler

              Try writing a "talking" piece about a character. You might be surprised at the  results...

               And thanks to my newest follower, Val Thevictorian. Val, if you are a blogger, let me know, and I'll include a link.  (I love your icon---if that's the correct term.)

An Affair With an Author

       Recently my friend Becky Povich wrote in her blog about the letters she has written to various authors.  She has even gotten replies.  I asked her who had written back: she kept mum.  I momentarily thought about replying about my affair with a writer, but thought it would be better to speak about it in a post...

      Years ago, I fell for George R. R. Martin.  His book Fevre Dream is such a gem: vampires meet the river boat trade of the 18oo's.  The plot is engaging, and the book became one of my favorites.

        When he came to St. Louis several years ago for a book signing/groupie gathering, I was there, ready. In my hands was my copy of Fevre Dream; everyone else had one of his sucky popular "fantasy" novels.  No one else in the room knew Martin as well as I did, they were unaware of his wonderful touch, otherwise they would not have been clamoring for the uninspired drivel that they lapped up. 

Kurt Sutter
photo by Himes Images

     When I stood up and proclaimed my love for Fevre Dream, in front of all the gaping onlookers, our eyes met. George saw a spark, from across the crowded room he knew we were kindred spirits, but I was too timid to make any further overtures and George...well, George could not suggest, surrounded by book purchasers, that we drive off into the sunset together.  Alas, I only had my old, worn copy (Fevre Dream was out of print for a while) and I was unwilling to shell out money for crap his recent tale so I could nab a line ticket to get his autograph.  $24.99 was all that stood between Martin and I consummating our connection.

     A few years later, I became bolder. I was at a teacher's conference and heard Rick Bragg speak about his memoir All Over But the Shoutin'.  Although I was happily married and in spite of the fact that I was sitting next to my very proper Mormon friend, I fell hard. He told poignant stories, he told hilarious tales, and it was clear no one else in the banquet hall knew him as I did.  I stalked him for years after that...devoured Ava's Man and later sobbed, when he broke it off with me in The Prince of Frogtown.  He had found another lover and married her; my heart was shattered...

        Now my sights are on someone else. Again, a writer.  This man has the ability to paint characters that are so dark (to most people's morality) yet so complex and so infused with their own "light."  This past season, he even wrote of a devoted father who traveled to Ireland to save his son as well as hunt down the man who kidnapped the little boy.  When this father spied on the couple that had "adopted" the baby, he walked away...this child now had a chance at a life free from violence and as heart-wrenching as the decision was, he knew it was the greatest act of love he could perform.  

       Kurt Sutter. I've got you in my cross-hairs. When you tire of Katey Sagal, I'll be waiting for you...

     And thank you to my newest follower, Fireblossom.  If you have not read her poetry, sit down first (otherwise you will topple over when she blows you away) and then enjoy.

    Also, one of my blogging buddies, Linda O'Connell is hovering close---but not quite---to 100 followers.  She's a serious freelancer and has millions of publishing credits (only a slight exaggeration) and is generous with her talent and knowledge.  Perhaps you will be the one to put her into the triple digits...