Time and the Storyteller

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P1050036“A story is already over before we hear it. That is how the storyteller knows what it means.” -Joan Silber, The Art of Time in Fiction

I hope I am not one of those people who says, “Everything happens for a reason.” As I once heard Barry Keating say, “God doesn’t send you hardship to build your character.”

Nevertheless, things happen, and sometimes character gets built. Sometimes things work out for the best. But knowing that isn’t necessarily helpful at the moment.

One of my daughters has had a setback, not getting into a program she had set her heart on. I’m reminded of other disappointments. Concert ticket scams fallen for. The right boy not making an appearance at the right time. Mom not giving in to a request for shoes that could change her life. Dropped ice cream cones.

I’m reminded of a boss who used to say, when his melodramatic young employees carried on over an upset, “And, Lo, she did not die.”

I’m reminded of a time one of my nephews, new at toddling, fell and bumped his head. When my brother-in-law got upset, my mother, the wise grandmother, said, “He’ll have lots of bumps and bruises in his little life.”

Which doesn’t mean you don’t keep an eye out for potential danger. Which doesn’t mean your heart doesn’t sink when your child is hurt, emotionally or physically.coffee wine sign

One of the things I like about being a writer is that hindsight, which is 20-20, becomes a tool for storytelling. In life we don’t know, not yet, what will come of a missed opportunity. Later, in storytelling time (one might say), we do know.

It feels like a tragedy, just now. But no one has died. (No one even got bruised!) If you keep your eyes open–you’ll see other doors open.

Happy Birthday, Colleen J. McElroy

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Today is the birthday of the inimitable Colleen J. McElroy. In celebration I refer you to my History Link article about Colleen, and to her essay in English Matters (Spring 2011) about post-retirement travels. 

And here’s a poem from her latest book, Here I Throw Down My Heart (U of Pittsburgh Press, 2012):

Crossing the Rubicon at Seventy

we do not know the name
of the river that roils
beneath us until we arrive
at its shores — until we give
reason to pass along or stay
there where waters sound
like uncut jewels swirling
in a tide pool — until the little
boats we’ve made fold like kites
in a storm — until we’ve come
to that point where turning mid-
stream is outside reason and staying
lays sour on the tongue — know
you have shaped a raft before
floating with the current toward
another long day’s journey — know
you have yet another reason
to reinvent yourself before
you take the last route home

–Colleen J. McElroy

 

Your Literary Halloween Costume

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I found this article at Book Riot. Having read all of these books helps. The Olivia costume is my fave.

Lisbeth Salander though? Hard to resist.

Mother, May I?

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One of the reasons I blog is so that I can share with you what I’ve been reading. And ever since I spent a month (last April) blogging about poetry I love, I have been attracting poetry — people pass along their favorite books, books of poetry just turn up, willy nilly, and poets sign their own books and hand them over to me. It makes me happy to be me.

One of these recent finds is Mother, May I, poems by Bellingham author, C. J. Prince.

C. J. and I had childhoods that do not resemble one another, in the least. No pink ladies or gimlets in my Pentecostal household. No pierced ears. (Severe and shocking haircuts, yes.)

Even so, this journey resonated with me at every step. A friend recently asked me who her audience would be, if she wrote her story. I told her that all any of us can do is to say, “This is what it’s been like for me to be human. What’s it been like for you?”

C. J. has reminded me that our mothers — flawed though they may be — are our first loves. It’s a messy, passionate love, and we all recognize it when we see it. I see it in these poems, from the first memory, to the final parting.

You can find C. J.’s book at Village Books, also on Amazon.

This is the first poem:

WAITING FOR THE RED EYE

Friday nights they forget
“Don’t.”

Don’t is the first word
I remember — a voice from above.
Don’t doesn’t mean anything
if you’re eighteen months old.

Adults on the couch laugh,
sip martinis. I reach
for the giant green olive
with a pimento dot
like a comic book eye.
Mother’s stern look flashes
a warning that might alert father.
I wait, play with wooden blocks.

Mom pulls out a cigarette, Dad flicks a Zippo.
A blue haze circles around me. They drink
and then an empty glass is lowered.
I snatch the shiny green treasure,
suck tart juice, bite into the chilled olive.
Martini juice dribbles to my elbow.