I'm Sioux Roslawski and this is my blog about writing, dogs, grown-up children, menopause, the joy of a marvelous book, classroom teaching in general, and specifically, the teaching of writing. You can email me at sroslawski(at)yahoo(dot)com.
Up until I was twenty-something, I thought only the classical stuff was truly art--Van Gogh, Rodin, Monet and so on. I squinted my eyes and turned my nose up at modern art--art I did not understand. (Oh! How I wish the days of Rodin were back with us. How well I would fit in!) But (years ago) when I took a class about teaching art (as I studied to become a teacher), everything changed. After looking at a painting that had some blue, red and yellow rectangles and squares scattered across the white canvas (which I scoffed at), we were given the same shapes and instructed to create a "painting." Thinking it could be done in an instant, it surprised me how long it took for me to arrange them in a way that satisfied me... how many times I arranged and rearranged the pieces. (The purpose of the class was to prepare me if I ever had to teach every subject--including art. I also had to take a "teaching music" class and thankfully--for everyone's ears' sake--I have never had to teach a music class. Sioux and singing do not go together harmoniously.) Since then, I've done some activities at our local art museum that have totally made me rethink what art is exactly. When you look at a piece of art in a unique way or with a closer lens, it's transforming... I'm a bit snooty when it comes to books and writing as well. There are genres I steer clear of (like romance) and yet, when Lisa Ricard Claro's romance books hit the bookstores, I will be in line to read them. Will her writing transform me into a rabid romance fan? Probably not, but the novels most likely will make me a more frothing-at-the-mouth Lisa Ricard Claro fan. On Saturday, I'm going to a writing marathon at Laumeier Sculpture Park. I trust that the art will be inspiring (or at least encouraging). On Monday I'll share some photos, along with (hopefully) a limerick or two. You see, one of my favorite activities--when getting together with writers over lunch or dinner--is writing round-robin limericks. Each person gets a paper beverage napkin, they write a first line to a limerick and then everyone passes to the right (or the left--if you're the facilitator, be self-centered and eye the table up, making your decision carefully, based on whose line you'd most like to get). Each napkin gets passed four times and then when all the limericks are finished, they're read aloud. Here are a few photos from the park:
Do you turn your nose up at certain types of art or certain genres of books? Do you have a limerick you'd like to share? Do you have to eat your words often, like I do?
Sometimes it only takes a small nudge to get me moving... to pull me out of my rut... to yank me out of my box. A dog rescue friend and I went hiking at a conservation area on Saturday. Taking three puppies on a hike is sometimes a challenge. They want to play. Wrestling on the path is what they think the trail is there for. However, after an hour of walking (sometimes the hills were steep; we had to jump over fallen trees and we had to slink under fallen trees), Radar was zonked out on Saturday night. I went walking with Radar at a local park yesterday by myself. Hopefully, I can make that a habit... For the past few months I've concentrated on nothing except short writing projects. Memoir pieces that run 800-1,000 words. My longer WIP has sat, stagnating, since... well, since July. Yikes! I knew it had been a long time, and planned on working on it on Saturday morning. However, I couldn't find where I had saved it. After checking several flashdrives and my desktop (aren't you impressed I even know what those things are, considering my total lack of tech-savvy-ness?), I discarded my plan. On Saturday evening I spoke to a writing friend; Julie lives in Austin, Texas. She casually asked, "How's your book coming?" and after saying that I'd done nothing on it for several months, I searched further. I finally found it and worked on it Sunday morning. Another 1,000 or so words got hammered out--not a lot but way better than nothing. My head is like concrete. I know I need to write every day and I know I need to write on a regular basis to keep even a trickle of momentum going. So why don't I do it?
Perhaps it's a good thing I'd set it aside for so long, because I had to read the whole thing to remember where I left off (at 16,000 words, it's only 25 pages right now). There were minor errors (I've changed the names of the characters several times, so there were plenty of places to spackle) and some things that were not quite clear, so I fixed them as I read. Is your head like concrete about some things? What are they? I'd like to know, because two concrete heads... well, they're not really better than one, but we can always hope...
Showing, and not telling, is a writer's mantra. Here are a few of life's little snippets. See if you can tell what is being shown...
* Yesterday, my class went on a field trip to our district's nature center. As the students stood along the edge of a pond, I had to request one kiddo move to the end of the line so they'd have "more room." I asked that same student to hold my hand as we walked through the prairie so they'd be safe. ("If we see a bee, I will get stung and not you, since the bee can see me more easily as I'm much bigger than you.") On the bus ride back to school, I requested that same student sit on the same seat with me, so we could "talk about the field trip." What am I showing you about that student?
* Yesterday, one of my students stared at my hair and said, "Mrs. R, you have a black spot in the middle of your hair." (Let the record show it's an aggressive-looking gray and not black.) On a daily basis, my students are trying to help me out by reporting the hunks of my hair that are standing upright in an unsightly manner or hanging down when they should be pinned up (My hair! My hair!There are other things that hang down and steel struts can't keep them propped up) or they'll suggest (with their third grade candor) that I "should run a comb through" my hair. Immediately. What am I showing you about myself?
* Two days ago, our pony puppy (Radar) enjoyed his last free puppy play date. One of the local swanky kennels offered puppies under the age of six months a free day on the first Wednesday of every month. Radar just turned six months, so no more freebies for him. I watched other dogs get picked up. The staff took their time getting the dog. The staff and the owner spoke a few minutes about how well-behaved the dog was and what fun they had. The staff smiled at the dog owners.
As soon as they heard me utter the name "Radar," one of the employees practically broke their neck racing to the back. Apparently someone put on a CD because I heard the faint strains of Handel's Messiah (the hallelujah chorus part) coming from somewhere in the building. When they emerged--with Radar straining and lunging and pulling--the employee glared at me as they muttered under their breath (something about "Satan's hound from hell") and as soon as I had the leash in my hand, they turned and ran back into the back of the building. Then, I heard what sounded like a blender starting to whir. Was there a celebration starting?
This weekend I watched the movie Belle. If you have not seen it, run out immediately and get it from Redbox or wherever you get your rentals. Two of the co-stars are Tom Wilkinson (one of my favorites---he was hilarious in The Full Monty) and Miranda Richardson (she was brilliant in The Crying Game). The singular star is Gugu Mbatha-Raw, another Brit, who plays Belle.
In the movie, there is a lightning-bolt moment when Belle's fiancee says something...something that is so dismissive of Belle's past, Belle cannot compromise or ignore any longer. An undercurrent to the primary storyline is a court case that has quite an insidious premise.
This movie is snatched from the pages of real-life history, which makes it even more compelling. If you love romance, you'll love this film. If you adore period pieces, you'll go ga-ga. If you are a history buff and are looking for a new not-well-known avenue to travel down, you'll find it here. This morning I also drew from a pile of names for the copy of Verna Simms' novel Water Under the Bridge. The competition was so stiff, with my thousandshundredsdozens three followers, it took an age to write down all the names, fold them in half, and stir them up. However, my numb and nimble little fingers finally finished, and the winner is... Shay. Shay, if you send me your address, I will send you a copy of the book.
Have you--my three followers--had a lightning-bolt moment? A moment when you immediately knew--in an electrical moment--that you'd have to quit your job or divorce or fall in love or surrender or take a risk? Share, please.
Names are important. Titles tells us something. But sometimes, names or titles change... Donna Volkenannt has a story in Chicken Soup's newest collection, Hope and Miracles. (It comes out October 7.) If you don't know Donna's work, you should. And if you don't know her titles, you definitely should check out her deftness when it comes to creating a title for her stories. This slice-of-life story is called "A Patchwork of Hope," and the title fits both figuratively and literally. (It's also a moving and well-crafted tale.) When I was born, my birth mother named me Margaret. (I can see myself as Maggie. Margaret? Never.) My parents named me Susan, which was fine until I hit 7th grade. Both Susan and Sue (and definitely Susie) were too conventional for my tastes. My inability to fit my round self into the square holes, combined with a passion for everything Native American led me to rename myself "Sioux." My friends knew me as Sue spelled with an X, my parents shook their head in dismay, and I remained Sioux--unofficially--until I was in my forties. It was then that I decided that the third time was a charm, the third name of mine was going to be the one that stuck, and I went to court and paid to change my name--legally--to Sioux. What do you think of your name? Did you ever have occasion to change it? If you did change it, what would you have changed it to? Nosy people like me want to know...
I read Crystal Otto's post this morning while I nibbled on a Muffin, and it immediately brought to mind a phrase a writing friend said. When she said it--several years ago--it resonated with me. Truth be told, when I get together with Britton Gildersleeve, lots of things she says hum and resonate and stick. She's a wonderful critique partner/editor, she talks a mile a minute, she reads everything that's worth reading, and she's wicked-smart. (Unfortunately, I only see Britton once a year at my annual writing retreat in Conception, Missouri.) Britton said, "The sun that shines on you also warms me."
We happened to be talking about people who are jealous of the success of others...People who try to downplay their accomplishments...people who try to hog up the spotlight. So the next time you look a little green-with-envy, think of how you can bask in that warmth, too. Because you can. And you should.
