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A Picture’s Worth . . . How Many Words?

/ Gerry Wilson / Leave a comment

Something New at The Writerly Life: Photo Prompts

For years I kept a folder of photographs (yes, real ones, printed out or clipped from magazines and newspapers) and used them as writing prompts for my students. I would set the pictures up around the room and let the students browse until something “struck them” about a photo. Then they were to take it back to their desks and free-write. Those early drafts often led to striking memoirs, stories, or poems.

Dive into a Photo, Come Up with a Story 

What I’m proposing is the opposite of a photo challenge (which I love), where a particular word sparks the search for an image. Here, the image sparks the words.

Every other week, I’ll post a photo. You’ll supply the creativity!

Maybe the photograph will trigger a memory, prompt a story or a poem, or even a blog post! Take the situation and run with it. Write about what’s happening in the picture. Write what came before. Write what comes after. Take it anywhere you like . . .

Your reward, if you choose to accept the challenge, is the pleasure of writing something new!

Let me know how this works for you. You might even post the first 100 words or so—or a few lines of a poem—in a comment. Or share a link to a longer piece. Whatever you do, have fun. Happy writing!

Here’s the first photo:

“Jumping Into Swimming Pool” by Ian Kahn
Free image courtesy of FreeDigitalPhotos.net

So Many Streets, So Many Connections

/ Gerry Wilson / 6 Comments

Photograph of Virginia Woolf , 1911 – 1912. Oil on board, by Vanessa Bell. In the public domain.

I have lost friends, some by death… others by sheer inability to cross the street. 
― Virginia Woolf

I just finished reading an essay, “Girlfriends,” in Anna Quindlen’s Lots of Candles, Plenty of Cake. In her memoir Quindlen passes along Virginia Woolf’s wise words, above. Those words struck me hard. For, you see, I am at an age where I have lost friends to death, although you might say age has nothing to do with it, and that’s true. Friends, or God forbid, family, can be snatched from us at any age, at any time; witness the recent unspeakable event in Aurora, Colorado.

How Wide Is the Street?

Having gotten those morbid thoughts out of the way, I’d rather focus on the other part of Woolf’s quote. We lose friends, Woolf suggests, “by sheer inability to cross the street.” Those words stunned me. How many times have I let friendships languish out of inertia? How often have I been unable, or unwilling, to “cross the street”?

I thought immediately of a good friend–we used to be “besties,” as the young ones might say–whom I haven’t seen in months. We haven’t even talked on the phone or emailed. I’m mystified by this neglect of a long-time friendship. I’m afraid we’ve drifted away from each other because of political and religious differences, and there’s no way one of us can convince the other she’s wrong. Even though we have “agreed to disagree,” those differences have cast a pall on our friendship. And yet, why have I not crossed the street, called one more time, and suggested we get together? I have not, and it’s a shame.

Then there’s my dearest childhood friend who writes me long, lovely, handwritten letters occasionally, newsy notes about her and her husband and what’s going on in their lives.  When we do talk, maybe once a year (why not more often?), we always pick up where we left off, as though not one of the events of our later lives has intervened. We might as well be girls again, sleeping over and giggling–or crying–about boyfriends. That’s a rare friendship indeed. My response to those long letters she writes? She’s lucky if she gets an email in return. She deserves a better friend.

And there are the friends in my book group (we call it “the bookgroup,” as in the only one). Some of us “go way back”; others are relatively new friends with whom I share a great love of books. We don’t always agree; in fact, we have spirited discussions when we meet. But we respect each other. I think it’s safe to say we love each other. We would cross the street; indeed, we have. (One of those friends shared the Quindlen essay with me. Thanks, J—.)

Coffee cup

A Whole New World

And then there’s the new world of cyber-friends. Friends, you say? Are you skeptical? That’s all right. I was, too, in the beginning. Yes, I use Facebook to keep up with my dear ones. Otherwise, Facebook “relationships” seem superficial, at best. And yet, if you’re lucky, a comaraderie develops over time as acquaintances open to each other through common interests; as they sense when someone needs a good word; as they listen (figuratively, yes); as they offer themselves unselfishly, laugh together, and cry together.

This is particularly true of writers, I think. I’ve become associated with a group of writers  through Facebook and other social media. We may have started out with the goal of increasing our online presence and creating a “platform” so that as we publish and hopefully, someday, really need a platform, we’ll be ready with the website and the Facebook Writer’s Page and a Twitter account and a nice number of connections across the Web. But I believe, as we’ve gotten to know each other better, bonds have formed among us. We don’t all know each other equally well; we don’t all share the same goals; we might not recognize each other if we were all thrown into a crowded room together. But we are connected. What we care about—our writing, mostly, but also our successes, our failures, our significant life moments, both good and bad—we have come to expect to share with these other folks whom we may never see in the flesh.

Let’s Have a Cup of Coffee

Yet we are, in a real sense, capable of “crossing the street” for each other. It’s not the same as sitting across from that old friend I miss a lot, having a cup of coffee, and catching up, or writing that long overdue letter, or having a pithy book discussion that ends in good will and laughter. It’s not the same as showing up at the home of a friend when somebody is sick or there’s terrible news.

But give us time and technology! We may just get there.

How important are your friendships, “in the flesh” or otherwise? Let me know your thoughts!

Guest Writer Mel Jones: The Socratic Use of Irony

/ Gerry Wilson / 1 Comment

Mel Jones

Founder of The Midlothian Writers’ Workshop, Mel Jones is an extraordinary writer, teacher, and retreat leader. She shares her wisdom and wit online at Mel’s Madness.

I’m thrilled to have her here at The Writerly Life.

Welcome, Mel!

The Socratic Use of Irony

Writing and thinking are so often intertwined for me. Both are intertwined with living. They are inseparable entities. Everything I see and hear is fodder for blog posts, essays, even Facebook status updates. Life is ironic. The challenge is seeing it and then translating it into something readers will be interested in, and giving it a moral. It’s the same process whether the writing is academic, personal, or professional.  Irony invades and I wonder should I write this story? Is there a moral to it? A lesson? And then I wonder, do stories need the moral spelled out?  Do I have to weave that throughout, or do I allow my reader to draw his or her own conclusions in a Socratic sort of way. I always liked Socrates.

***

In one not so recent Composition class, filled with non-traditional students, I faced such a challenge. Is this a story I should tell? Do I fill in the blanks, or allow the reader, like the other people in the story, to draw conclusions? The class was diverse: a woman welder, a roofer, a couple of musicians, veterans, single parents, you know, people struggling to make their lives better.

“Education is the kindling of a flame, not the filling of a vessel.” —Socrates
Image: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Socrates

On the first night, two students cried: a man in his thirties (the roofer) and a single mom. They were so sure that they would not be able to do this, that they were simply too old to do this, that writing was too hard. I nurtured this class, held hands until my students felt confident enough to hold each other’s hands. They learned to attack research with a gusto I have rarely encountered – they supported each other, fleshing ideas, offering resources their classmates may not know about…

And then there’s Princess.

Yes, you read that right, Princess. She has a semi-normal name, she’s twenty-seven and wants—insists—people call her Princess. I picture a German shepherd I was friends with years ago. Princess didn’t come to the first two classes and thought she should simply be exempt from those class assignments.

Really, Princess? A man cried he was so overwhelmed by the idea of writing every week. He cried in my classroom. Of course, he doesn’t call himself Princess.

Princess arrived late to class in week three (week one for her). She brought her dinner, rumpled bags while I lectured, refused to do group work, and was in and out of the classroom. She cleaned out her handbag, snapped her gum, and cleaned her nails. Despite the fact that it’s a night class she never took her sunglasses off. Finally, halfway through class, Princess decided she was done for the night. So, she did the only practical thing to do: she wrote me a note, walked in front of me while I was lecturing, positioned her note on the podium, and left.

Class stopped and we all looked where Princess had been in a sort of stunned horror—really? The welder made a snide comment about priorities. As Princess sauntered out the door, my first thought was, damn there’s a story in that, because I just couldn’t make this stuff up. During the break, I made notes.

I emailed Princess and told her that she had makeup work to do and she needed to get in touch with me if she wanted to bring her grade up. Because if you haven’t done any of the work, you flunk. I informed her advisor that she was disruptive in my class.

Princess emailed me back, in all caps (that’s just too ugly to reproduce here): U dont git to tell me wat I ciin do. I is 27 and u dont know me at all I is gonna change the world 4 my daughter. I no wat I has to do to be sucessful. I shuld have an A I jus started class.

Right, I wanted to say, I guess you missed the part in your schedule that said this was an English class. And I am an English teacher. I wanted to say, actually, Princess, bless your heart, I do get to tell you what to do. You see, professors are like bosses; they tell people what to do and then dole out pay in the form of grades. And right now, you are getting a zero. If there were a grade lower than that I would give that. If there were a place on the transcript for conduct and effort, I would write a novel about your rudeness and sense of entitlement. Instead, I did some creative writing. I emailed her back a simple list of assignments that she was missing. I explained that attendance had very little to do with assignments; she was still responsible for the work. She had been on my roster from day one. I prided myself on my restraint and scribbled more notes.

Princess sent a note to her advisor, who forwarded me a copy. It said I wasn’t being flexible nor was I trying to understand her situation. She didn’t use nor. I decided that the semester had just gotten much longer. I purchased a small notebook and wrote Princess Journal on the cover.

Tiara
Image: Fotolia

Princess returned for an encore the next week. She did arrive on time, but sent text messages for ten minutes and ate a four-course meal from some sort of cafeteria-style take out place.

“Who can tell me how to conjugate the verb to be?” I asked. Because the universe revolves around verbs. Not math—even math needs verbs (add these, divide those).

The roofer cringed, but didn’t cry. The welder asked if the answer was X-rated. Princess said she grew up in New York and didn’t need this lesson.

One of the single moms rolled her eyes at Princess and asked me what I meant.

I wrote on the board:

I AM                     You ARE                  They ARE

Everyone seemed to understand. They all breathed a sigh of relief. No tears grammar refresher.

“So how do we put it in the past tense?”

I WAS…You was? No. Were?

“Yes,” I responded. “Were.”

Princess said, “So what about where?”

I stared blankly. “What?”

“Where—it’s where.”

“No, no, it’s were.”

“Whach you know anyway.”

Well, I thought to myself, I am the English teacher; I think you can take my word on word conjugation and prepositions. I didn’t go to school in New York, but, you know, I have three graduate degrees in English. I said, “I have a book in my bag, 501 English Verbs, you can check it if you like.”

“I don’t need no book. It’s where. I’s not stupid.”

The roofer and a veteran mumbled in unison, “That’s debatable.”

The welder responded, “No it’s not.”

I ignored Princess and carried on with my lesson. She munched on her food, looked out through her sunglasses, and muttered a lot.

I gave the class an assignment – a group assignment. But, before I had the chance to say, you must work as a team, Princess sprinted out the door, abandoning her group.

When I found her in the hall I asked, “Where’s your group? Have you worked together? Formed conclusions about how research should work?”

“They be over there! Does I need to show you? You can’t find ’em?”

Grammar aside, I was appalled by her arrogance. I replied, “No, I don’t need you to show me, and I don’t really need the attitude, thank you.”

“Did you hear that?” She grabbed a student walking by. “Who does she think she is disrespectin’ me like that? I gonna file a complaint! Come with me, you be my witness.”

The other student looked confused but followed her anyway. I thought, I’m the Instructor, that’s who I am.

I went on to gather up the rest of my students and complete the class activity. Princess filed her complaint and didn’t return to class. One of my students asked if I had thrown Princess out. The welder said she could take Princess outside and teach her a thing or two, maybe not about English, but about other important life skills. No charge.

All of the veterans offered to help.

When I arrived at school the next morning, one of the tenured professors pulled me aside and told me not to worry about Princess, or her complaint. Princess is enrolled in a technical college, she has flunked Orientation four times—and her goal is to be a Supreme Court justice.

I tried to process it. I had visions of decisions that looked like her emails.

***

I have written, and rewritten this story a dozen times. I refer to my notes, reflect on what I should say about Princess. And then I set it aside; is there anything I can say about Princess that her words and actions don’t say loudly? Is the irony lost? Each time I conclude, no; Princess’ story stands on its own and doesn’t need my commentary. I just have to be brave enough to accept that. I have to accept that we’re all the roofer, the welder, the single moms, and the veterans. The message of the story spells itself out. We don’t need the irony flagged; well, unless we’re Princess.

I still teach Composition—and still look for ironies to develop into stories that might make Socrates smile. Most of the students from that class have graduated now. Princess dropped my class. She is one more step removed from the halls of justice. And I think that’s an ironic justice worth writing about. Because sometimes the story is just worth telling. Sometimes, the lesson teaches itself.

About Mel:

Mel Jones is a native Bostonian. She grew up on the Irish Riviera — The South Shore. As a child, she spent many hours sitting in trees reading books and writing poems. She had her own newspaper column at fifteen and was determined that she would be the next Shakespeare or Tolkien. She was educated at The College of William and Mary, Virginia Commonwealth University, and Antioch University, Los Angeles. She holds degrees in History, English, Rhetoric, Literature, and Creative Writing (Nonfiction). Yes, she is overeducated.

She has done extensive genealogical research both for her own family tree and professionally. Mel edited a now defunct literary journal, The Sylvan Echo. She’s taught children from kindergarten through college in a variety of public and private settings.  She currently teaches College-level Composition. Mel is the founder of The Midlothian Writers’ Workshop.  She offers a variety of services for writers, including retreats.

Publications include a book of poetry, Between the Lines (2005), and essays in The William & Mary Gallery, Sherwood Forest, and online at Little Seal and r.k.vr.y. She recently had an epiphany: if she sent her work out more, she would be published more. She’s working on that. She maintains a sometimes snarky blog, Mel’s Madness, which is more Erma Bombeck than William Shakespeare. Mel lives and writes on a small leisure farm west of Richmond, Virginia with her partner, parrots, and progeny.