I Hate This Prompt!

A Prompt from Writing Class: Describe your Writing Group I absolutely hate this prompt. It is something I don't like to do - get so up close and personal with my subject. The group began several writing classes ago, when I first met Marlena. She and I were part of a class in the Sarah Lawrence Writing Group entitled Finding Our Voices. She wrote a piece in response to another prompt - to go out in the world and observe. She observed folk working behind the counter in what was probably a diner, and she captured the close moments of a tip of knife cutting food. I loved her piece, and then her larger work, about her childhood in Panama. At the end of the semester she and I, along with a few others, began to meet for informal writing sessions. We continued to take classes together, one with the well- known author Sally Koslow, where we met Nan and Jessica. Jessica wrote a piece about a little girl who played cash register, a vignette I loved which later surfaced as part of her first novel. Nan was famous for her wry essays, fashion sense, her wit, and her incredible support. When I read my work she raved and made me feel so good. Jessica also supported and raved about my work, along with Marlena. I was beginning to feel like Shakespeare, or at least Margaret Mitchell. Buoyed by all this praise, I got the courage to join a class dedicated to novel writing. Before the group met I arrived early, and sat down with a beautiful young woman who introduced herself as Eileen. She'd already written a novel, she told me, but wanted to workshop her next one, Worth the Weight. I told her I had a novel in progress too, Ms. Murphy's Makeover, and she agreed to read it. When we met a short while later in a coffee shop she had not only read my novel, she had prepared detailed notes. Again, lots of support. (By the way, Worth the Weight has recently been published by Diversion Press.) Riding the wave of unmitigated support, I presented my novel to the class dedicated to novel writing, led by Jimin. When asked if I wanted criticism, I said, bring it on. I was prepared for accolades. Alas, not so much this time. For the first time my book got some negative remarks, and for the first time my confidence, or over-confidence, was shaken. But tough love is still love. For example, Ahmed, who was writing a satirical piece about Pakistan, was forthright in saying that my book was repetitive. At first I was crestfallen, but I realized he was right. I really appreciate his honesty. Jimin, our teacher, who could never be other than sweet, was incredibly generous with her time, and helped me organize the book differently in a private session, helping me to look for through threads. A new member of our group, Ines, joined us the next semester. Her writing, about Sao Paolo, seemed nothing short of amazing, and her personality, warm and generous, lit up the class. And then along came Rickey - that prolific, kind, and sizzling writer, who has offered support and help as well. Can I forget our other teacher Pat, who co-taught with Jimin? Never! Her firecracker comments and true kindness infused our class sessions. I loved her peremptory comments, her insistence that she was right, her mock battles with Jimin, the good cop, over control of time. I may hate writing about this group, but I love being part of it.

Hunger Is the Best Pickle

Dante had the ability to be in the honors class for 11th grade English,  but he couldn't stay quiet.  He called out in class, interrupting the teacher and annoying the studious kids intent on earning A's.   So he was demoted to my class of average students.  Lucky me. Paraphrasing a quotation known as a "critical lens"  was on the agenda the day Dante appeared.  Crossing my fingers, I gave an assignment that was a little challenging,  asking the students to interpret a quotation ascribed to Benjamin Franklin:  Hunger is the best pickle.  I put  the kids in groups, ostensibly to discuss the quote, but actually to make noisiness acceptable.  I knew they'd be talking about everything except the quotation.  I pretended to pounce on Dante's group, and of course, bright light that he was, he came up with a reasonable interpretation.  I don't remember what he said. It didn't matter.  I just wanted an excuse to praise him.

I made kind of a big deal over this,  asking Dante to repeat his answer to the entire class.    Another boy in the group echoed my praise, announcing that Dante had been really good at explaining the puzzling quote.

Whew!  What I'd done could have backfired, but luck was with me.  Dante was never a problem in my class.  His hunger for praise was the only pickle needed.

Teaching the Introvert

An article in today's NY Times," Smarts vs. Personality" by Anna North, inspired this memory of a boy I'll call Roberto.

Roberto slid into my sophomore English class each day and took his assigned seat wordlessly. Unlike the other boys who favored jeans, he dressed as if for church, in slacks and a button down shirt. He carried a briefcase, not a backpack. I never saw him speak to another student, and he never answered in class, although he did well on tests and always handed in homework. The motherly security guard at the main desk worried about him. "That boy's in trouble. I don't want to read about him someday," she told me. His guidance counselor said to give him space, that he was like one of the early flowers in the spring - a harsh wind or careless footstep would destroy him. I was new to the school, and I had to be observed by an assistant principal several times a term. These observations would be reduced to writing. Typically, a lesson's critique would mention three good things and two things that needed to improve. For example, repeating student answers was a no-no for the teacher. Instead, the teacher was supposed to ask another student to repeat a classmate's answer, encouraging kids to pay attention to each other. This was one of my "bad things" on a previous observation. I had to watch out for that during my next observation. With the supervisor sitting in the back of the room writing diligently, I asked a question and got a correct answer from a girl named Rachel. "What did she say, Miss?' a boy asked. "Who can repeat Rachel's excellent answer?" was my careful response. The class was silent. "Why you being so stupid today?" the same boy asked. "Why can't you just tell us?" The supervisor was writing furiously. I looked around at the students, desperate. But the room was silent. And then, a miracle occurred. Roberto's hand, for the first time, slowly went up. For the first time that term, his voice was heard. He repeated Rachel's correct answer. And he smiled at me.

Don't Smile Till Christmas

Don't Smile Till Christmas Don't Smile Ask most teachers and they will confess. They can't sleep the night before the school year begins in autumn.  I was no different, although I loved school, girl and woman, student and teacher.  For most of my life September meant new notebooks, new personalities, and new challenges.  But now, as September ends, the excitement of returning to the classroom has taken on an appropriately autumnal haze.

The sad news of the great comedian and actor Robin Williams' death evokes memories of  his role in The Dead Poet's Society. His teacher character employed shock classroom tactics, like walking on the desks and having students rip up their text books. The element of surprise worked for me too, but in a quieter way.

Unlike my college professor daughter, who once lined up stuffed animals on her bed and gave them spelling quizzes, my early ambition was not to teach, but to write for a living. But as my college graduation neared I won a fellowship for a master's degree for teaching secondary school English.  I can do that for a while, I thought.  It looked so easy: a short day, a long summer break, and nothing to do but stand in front of the room and inveigh against sentence fragments. A piece of cake. It wasn't.  But one thing I had going for me was the element of surprise.

I could not be Robin Williams walking on desks. That might work in the hallowed halls of prep schools, but not in the New York City public high schools, where I obtained a license to teach English. "Don't smile till Christmas," I was told. "You need to control them."  Before my first class I practiced speaking through tight lips.

But a wonderful mentor, Janet Mayer, told me just the opposite. "I control with love and kindness," she told me. (Her book, As Bad As They Say, explains the techniques she shared.) Her license plate at the time began with PPP, and I thought it must mean Practically Perfect Person. When I told her that, she smiled and said to remember the word practically. No one was perfect all the time.

Throughout my years in the classroom I was far from perfect. Sometimes I was cranky, sometimes lazy, and, most regretfully, sometimes I was unfair. But I came to learn that, more than a common core curriculum or a battery of tests, my students needed someone to take their education seriously, and someone to smile at them. And when I did both of those things, that was surprise enough.

The Parisian Parasite

  cryptosporidium

 

Here is a picture of a souvenir my husband brought home from France.  No, it is not a beautiful silk scarf, but a laboratory slide of the parasite cryptosporidium,which rendered him weak and miserable, unable to walk more than the few steps from bed to bathroom.

If you've seen my other posts you know I'm not the eager traveler my husband is. I like to say that he is the dragger, I am the draggee -  a hard sell, preferring to spend my time with family and friends right here in the good old USA, where we can be reasonably sure that the water is drinkable, the food is safe, and hand-washing is advised for all restaurant workers. I say reasonably, of course. Food poisoning, unclean produce, and poor hygiene exist here too.  This six syllable scourge is a water -borne organism, and we have no idea how it came to lodge in my husband's gut, only that it came to him in France.

This was not our first encounter with traveler's troubles.  Our first mishap occurred in Tibet, and we blamed it on a visit to an orphanage. We were offered momos, a kind of ravioli made with ground meat.  Foolishly we accepted, not liking to be impolite, and, although we managed to visit the Jokhang Temple, below, within hours we needed a  doctor.  Our tour guide translated as the doctor inserted a make-shift IV.  As all the medications prescribed were written in Chinese, we do not know what was given, only that they worked very quickly. For about $75 - a cure.

In Lhasa Tibet - post momo

I  was cured too - of ever wanting to travel anywhere ever again.  I was sure the universe was telling us to stay put, but my intrepid spouse didn't agree. Soon he was back on the computer, tap- tapping away on Turkey.  Yes, I was dragged, but I loved it.  Hagia Sophia was magnificent, as was all of Istanbul - a fabulous cosmopolitan city.  The blue mosque, (see me there below, in headscarf) was gorgeous.

J inside blue mosque

Worth the trip - almost. We had a local guide, who took us to restaurants and ate with us, ate the very same food. Apparently his immunity was established and ours was not.  Soon we were both in a Turkish hospital, unable to keep anything inside our bodies.  Once again a doctor prescribed medication, charged us each about $75, and we were able to get home - thanks to a certain pink peppermint liquid and luck.

At this point I said no more.  This time I meant it. But . . . I am half French, and am a fan of all things French.  My husband dangled the lure of Paris, city of light, before me and I succumbed.   He promised only high end dinners starred by Michelin, where you had to pay a king's ransom for water, bottled of course. And so we went.  We feasted each night like kings, as he'd promised.  But that was dinner. During the day there was breakfast and lunch. Did the workers in our hotel and in sidewalk cafes wash their hands?   Were all the vegetables carefully cleaned? Perhaps not.  Or perhaps some other water source propelled the horrible cryptosporidium into my poor husband.

Fortunately, my husband's immune system has been working hard, and he is much better. But he will never recover this August.  After the ecstasy of fabulous Paris, the agony of the Parisian parasite. . . a month of recurrent flares, of bland food and limited activity.

A word to  would be travelers, even in first world countries: eat neither fruit nor uncooked veggies, drink only bottled beverages and keep your immune system fired up and ready to roar. Better yet, stay home!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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WRITERS AND ILLUSTRATOR'S BLOG TOUR

Writer's and Illustrators's Blog Tour

Hi everyone!  I'm up next on a Blog Tour for Writers and Illustrators, invited by Nan Mutnick, a novelist, essayist, and yoga teacher extraordinaire. What every writer needs is a cheerleader, someone to praise, encourage, and give that necessary nudge.  For me, that person is Nan, my Sarah Lawrence Writing Institute buddy and Cheerleader in Chief. Thank you, Nan. Find her at http://nanyoga.com

Specialities of the House
Specialities of the House

I need a lot of prodding.  I am a quintessential stick in the mud, married to a man who wants us to see the world together. He's the dragger. I'm the draggee.  Above I am posing in a purple scarf, purchased from a market day kiosk in France.  Below I'm in China, looking forward to dumplings for dinner. In my new (thanks again Nan) blog,  I'll offer my take on Paris, Pompeii, Tibet and Turkey, as well as my life as an ex- Bronx teacher and current scribbler.

jackie in china 1
jackie in china 1

WHAT AM I WORKING ON NOW?

We've just returned from the Perigord, a region in southwest France where foie gras rules and castles abound.  I'm a few chapters into a romance novel set in a haunted chateau. Working title: Haunted by Happiness.   Start with an Irish American girl, add an impoverished French count, insert them in the picture below, and voila!

DSCN0554
DSCN0554

WHY DO I WRITE WHAT I DO?

Writing had always been what I loved, but who had time, as a teacher, as a mom, as a wife? How to start? What to write about?  What have I learned?  I once read that if we could see into another person's life, then we would forgive them. Certainly not an original insight, but one which resonates with me.  But I don't write to preach. I write to release something unknown that bubbles up from within. Whether wounded or joyful, frightened or furious, I send forth torrents of words, the dam broken, from the place where writing starts.

HOW DOES YOUR WRITING PROCESS WORK?

The beginning is like hearing another voice in my head. Driving, folding laundry, doing all the ordinary physical things that have to get done, words come to me. Eventually images follow, and I sit down to write. Fear not! I am not certifiable, and I haven't spent much time thinking about Joan of Arc, despite my French vacation.  But words arrive, unbidden, sometimes in the form of song lyrics, or lines of the poetry I used to teach, or something someone once said. And characters begin to live in my imagination.

HOW DOES MY WORK DIFFER FROM OTHERS OF ITS GENRE?

I'd like to say that my writing is uncommon clever, literate, engaging, and so forth, and so I will!  I write about women who are both smart and stupid, and the men who complement them.  Most unique and individual is a little bite in my voice, inviting you to join me in a shared joke about my characters and about myself.

Thanks again to Nan  Mutnick for inviting me on this tour. Look her up at http://nanyoga.com

Next up  are two talented classmates from the Sarah Lawrence Writing Institute. Both are prolific, energetic, animal loving, and awesome. Both are terrific writers. You'll find them at:

Rebecca Marx:  http://www.rebeccamarksauthor.com

Jessica Rao:      http://www.timeinsensitive.com

Links to the Blog Tour Author/Illustrators –

Marcela Staudenmaier: http://marcelaillustration.blogspot.com/

Judith Moffatt: http://www.judithmoffatt.com/

Susan Novich: www.susabean.com

Meg Sadano: http://msodanoillustration.com/updates/

Anne Wert: http://www.annepwert.com/

Sarita Rich: http://saritarich.com/about.html

Susie Slosberg:  http://www.pinkchairprints.com/

Nan Mutnick: http://nanyoga.com/

Jackie Goldstein:http://tomorrowbeckons.wordpress.com/

Absent Yet Present

It begins with hearing another voice in my head. When I'm driving, folding laundry, doing all the ordinary things that have to get done, words come to me. Eventually images follow and I sit down and write. When I'm not writing I really try to pay attention, to be present in the now, but soon my disobedient mind is wandering far away. Imagine a computer with three windows, past, present, and future, like Ebenezer's Christmas spirits. I have perfected looking a person in the eye, giving that nod to show I am listening, interjecting a quiet word like really! Or yes! To pretend I am following. But I am not. Instead I am remembering an overheard conversation, or imagining my character's next scene. I can't seem to keep my brain where it needs to be, the present. Restless, roaming, looking for the right word or the almost right word, as Mark Twain would say, I let the pasta boil too long, the chops turn into char-b-Q, the marinara run over the pot in rivulets like the red sea. When I want to be writing I find it hard to pay attention, to fix this mind of mine on what is happening right now. When the right word strikes I hurry to the computer, forgetting to turn off the stove.