Nothing Special

           Eleven years ago, I met a wonderful woman named Dr. Dorree Lynn.  I had interviewed her for a magazine article I was writing for Family Digest Magazine, and we became friends.  Dorree is a psychologist and the author of “When the Man you Love is Ill,” “Getting Sane Without Going Crazy,” and “Sex for Grownups.”  Not surprisingly, the article I wrote was titled “Sex with your Ex,” and in case you’re wondering, the cliff notes for that are—don’t do it. 

            In 2001, I went to Dr. Dorree’s fiftieth birthday party.  It was unlike any other party I had ever been to in that the party’s guest list was fifty women, women whom Dorree considered the most amazing women she knew.  I was flown to Washington, D.C. and put up in the Watergate hotel.  I ate with politicians and Directors of major organizations, had a little too much to drink with a certain FOX news correspondent and had the honor of meeting a beautiful woman who would become the title character of a national bestseller about her struggle with Parkinson’s Disease. 

            I have to say, I was a little overwhelmed by my inclusion.  Forty-nine women at this party were powerful, famous or well-known, most, all of the above.  And then there was me.  Although I was a little star-struck at the time, I remember going through the night almost embarrassed to answer the question, “What do you do?” I would stumble, and at least a few times, Dorree interrupted to say, “Kelly is a writer.”   

            A few days after the party, I told Dorree that although it was an awesome experience, I don’t feel that I belonged in that group.  Yes, I’m a writer, but no-one knows my name.  I am a dime a dozen, I am nothing special.  Dorree’s response: “Yes, you are special.  You just don’t know it yet.”

            Ten years later, Dorree and I have lost touch.  She has continued on her own path of writing books, participating in expert panels, counseling and giving relationship advice on everything from death to granny sex.  The other forty-nine of the fabulous fifty?  Well, let’s just say you would recognize most of their names.

            And then there is me.

            I went back to school and went back again, and am in school again.  I still write, but due to the time constraints of just living, I have never had the time or the luxury to pursue it as I would have liked.  No one knows my name, and probably never will, and I often wonder if I should have stuck with my dreams of being an astronaut.  Or, if I should just be satisfied with the daily grind.

            But, that won’t happen.  I will keep reaching, keep trying to achieve something more, keep trying to justify my place in that group of women I met ten years ago.  Because in the end, it may just be my tenacity that makes me special.

Check out http://www.drdoreelynn.com/

A Word about Nuns

In the past few weeks I have read two books about nuns.  No, I did not go looking for books about nuns, I am reading everything by author Ron Hansen, hoping his expertise in historical fiction will rub off, and two of his books just happened to be about nuns. 

My experience with nuns has been limited.  Of course, there was Sally Field flying around the convent and Whoopi Goldberg hiding from the bad guys that almost made Nun-dom look like fun.  But, I’ve had such little contact with “real” nuns that I’ve always considered them mysterious, even mystical women. 

So now I’ve read two books, works of fiction, mostly, but fiction so well written that the nuns came to life on the pages.  And although the stories were both very powerful, the education I received in Nun-hood was priceless. 

Exiles by Ron Hansen is the story of five German nuns, destined for America, who die on the steamship Deutschland.  The story is told alongside a second narrative, that of Gerard Manley Hopkins, a priest and poet who was so taken with the story of the nuns that he wrote a very detailed poem about their experience called “The Wreck of the Deutschland.”    Hopkins and the nuns are real people, their stories fictionalized.  Although the ending of the story, the death of the nuns, is already known, it is the telling of their story that is exceptional. 

Mariette in Ecstasy, also by Ron Hansen, is a fictional account of a young postulate in 1906 who develops the five holy wounds of Christ, stigmata.  Half of the other nuns in the convent think she is a saint.  The others think she has wounded herself for attention.  It is a beautiful story, one that definitely makes you think and (one of my favorite things),  has a surprise ending.

I’m not a big follower of “nun literature”, nor do I seek out these types of books in general.  However, I do feel like I now know a little bit more about those amazing, mysterious, mystical women and recommend both of these books to my reader friends.

My First Valentine

I have a picture that was taken when I was six years old.  I remember the day, at least in the way anyone can remember forty years past.  My dad had just taught me my very first song, ‘Lovesick Blues’ by Hank Williams, and told me if I kept practicing, I could be a professional yodeler someday.  In the picture, he is sitting in a chair and I have my arms around his neck.  He always had a way of making me feel special. 

I have another, taken when I was twenty.  There was a party going on, I don’t remember the occasion, but he and I had ended up in the kitchen, away from the crowd, having a drink and telling each other jokes.  He made fun of my boyish haircut.  I called him Sonny Bono.  He’s sitting in a chair and I have my arms around his neck.  He always had a way of letting me know that he loved me.



The night before he died, he told me how proud he was that I had grown into a good mother: a good woman.  I put my arms around his neck.  I remember it well.  I don’t need a picture. 

It has been eleven years and Valentine’s Day has never been the same.  It was his birthday and this year would have been his seventy-third.  If he were here, he would make me yodel for him and I would make fun of him for being so old.  Then I would walk up behind him and wrap my arms around his neck. 

I still think of him every single day.  My father, my daddy, my friend, my first valentine. 

Post Residency Depression

I am a student in the Southern New Hampshire University low residency MFA program and I just completed another winter residency with forty of my closest friends. 

It is hard to describe a residency experience, but there is something magical about being surrounded by talented, inspirational people that seem as excited about your writing as you are.  We learn a lot in our workshops and of course we have fun, but it is the community experience that cannot be described.  People sitting with notebooks, tapping on laptops, writing on their hands.  Reading scenes informally in a corner for feedback, making lists of “flaws” that could be attached to characters.  Crying about powerful scenes, laughing about everything else. 

Now I am home and now it begins.  That period of being back in the real world, where working the day job comes first, writing second.  Where my husband, although always supportive, doesn’t understand why I fret over a paragraph, a sentence or a word.  Where a phrase like “Bro-s before Prose” doesn’t bring a smile and a bottle of fairy dust is nothing but a child’s toy.  The real world. 

Post residency depression.    

It usually lasts about a week.  I will feel sorry for myself, look at my pictures and try to keep those memories fresh for just a little longer.  I will eat junk food, smoke too much and try not to roll my eyes when my husband says, “It’s just one sentence, who will notice?”  I will procrastinate in my reading and in my writing, throw a few inappropriate fits and argue with a convenience store clerk or two for no apparent reason.  I will stay in bed as long as possible, take several hot baths and try everything I can to get out of cooking dinner. 

Then I will sit at my keyboard and begin again.  Write, read, edit, delete, revise, repeat. 

Remembering Nig

My current novel in progress is set during the building of the Hoover Dam.  As much as I would like to say that my fascination with the dam and its construction was the inspiration for the book, the truth is, the project evolved from a short story I was writing about dog named Nig.      

During the construction, a small black dog, abandoned by his mother, became the “mascot” of the dam.  He was loved by the workers and the townspeople and was known as “everyone’s dog and nobody’s dog.”  His name was Nig.

When Nig died, he was buried at the site (contrary to rumors, the only body buried there), and the workers hung a plaque over his gravesite to honor their friend.  In the early 1970’s, a visitor to the dam was offended by the dog’s name and made it his mission to have the plaque removed.  The Bureau of Reclamation did just that, replacing it with another plaque that does not include his name. 

Nig was an important character in the dam’s history.  His name, while it may not be considered “politically correct” today, was the name that was given to him by the workers who loved him.  It is also a reminder of the times and should be viewed in its historical context.   Offensive?

History is offensive.  But it is our history, the good and the bad.  And the more we try to filter historical accuracies to be better aligned with current day beliefs, the more we dilute the richness of our past and the challenges we have overcome. 

Read more about Nig:

http://hooverdamstory.com/mascot

Good For the Soul

I am currently working on a Master of Fine Arts in the Southern New Hampshire University low residency program.  Yesterday, our amazing graduate assistant, Tim Deal, posted an entry on the Writing in the SNHU-MFA blog titled “Dirty Little Secrets,” which encourages all of us to “share and discuss (our) work whenever the opportunity presents itself.”

I understand the vulnerability of the writer he describes and her unwillingness to share her work.  I know it helps me grow as a writer, I know it is good reading practice, I know, I know, I know.  Yet, I still don’t “share and discuss (my) work whenever the opportunity presents itself.”

This morning, I took Tim’s words as a call to action.  

Like a lot of aspiring writers, I have a “day job.”  I am a Home Health Nurse and I travel from door to door.  I have some patients that I have seen daily for several years.  One particular woman lives in an Assisted Living facility and every morning, she and three other women sit down to breakfast as I’m leaving their home.  They all know me by name, know I’m a student and know that I write.  They have asked several times to hear one of my “stories,” but I have begged off, making excuse after excuse.

Several years ago, I had a story published in Chicken Soup for the Bride’s Soul titled “Until Death Do Us Part.”  It is an essay about an elderly woman I met in an assisted living facility and how her outlook on the passing of her husband had a great affect on me personally.  I thought the story would be appropriate for my small fan base, and armed with a copy of Chicken Soup, I left the house early this morning for an impromptu breakfast reading.

 This particular story tends to make me cry, but every elderly woman I have ever known to read it or hear it has had a different response.  They smile.  It brings back happy memories of the men they spent their lives with.  After the reading, I sat and I listened to these four widows reminisce about their lives with their own husbands.  I found it difficult to pull myself away from their stories: all different, all inspiring, all told with an affection that continues long after the death of their spouses.  Stories that they rarely get a chance to share.  It made me remember how powerful the original meeting that inspired the story was for me.  It reminded me how precious life is and it forced me to remember to live in the present and enjoy every day. 

Yes, sharing our work as writers does help us grow in our craft.  It does give us much needed experience in reading and it does help us to affirm the fact that we are writers.  But sometimes, reading to others simply brings joy to their lives, no matter how small or for how short of time that may be.  Sometimes, reading to others helps us grow as individuals.  Sometimes, it is just good for the soul. 

Chicken Soup for the Bride’s Soul:

http://www.amazon.com/Chicken-Soup-Brides-Soul-Commitment/dp/0757301401/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1295555738&sr=8-1

Read the SNHU-MFA blog at:

http://snhumfawriter.wordpress.com/2011/01/20/dirty-little-secret/

Crazy Mother

Like most writers, I have a list of authors and books that I find inspirational.  My favorite author is Marguerite Duras, and my favorite book is The Lover, and if you are not familiar with it, you should be.  It is a beautiful story and an excellent example of the craft of writing.

As a teenager, Marguerite Duras lived with her mother and two siblings in French Indochina.  It was the 1930’s and young Marguerite was trying to identify herself with the world around her.  Her family was poor, and although political and racial tensions existed on extreme levels, she had an affair with a wealthy Chinese man.  This affair was later written about several times during her lifetime.

At the age of seventy she wrote The Lover, and tells the story one last time.  Why?  Because she never felt she told it right.  She never felt she gave the story the depth, the love, the hate, the spectrum of emotions it deserved.
 
And I like that.  To know that someone as accomplished as Marguerite Duras continued to perfect her craft, her story, throughout her life is inspirational to me as a writer.
    
So why Crazy Mother?  Marguerite Duras had a tense relationship with her own mother as I had with my own.  Although our mother-daughter relationships were quite different, I believe that for our own reasons, most of us can appreciate the range of emotions that are represented in the following quote:

I believe that always, or almost always, in all childhoods and in all the lives that follow them, the mother represents madness. Our mothers always remain the strangest, craziest people we've ever met. –Marguerite Duras

I am a mother.  Do my children feel the same way about me?  I read this to my oldest son, who laughed and said, “Yes, that sounds about right.”  I then read it to my youngest who said, “Of course we think you’re crazy, but we love you just the way you are.”  That was all I needed to hear.

           

Throughout our lives we are assigned many titles: Mother, Daughter, Student, Professor, Author, and many more.  However, we don’t always choose to own or perfect each title, often, we only choose to identify ourselves with the ones that we consider positive attributes.  I’m not sure I agree with that.  I am much more than just the good, the accomplished, the positive.  I hope when I am seventy years old, I have the courage to look back and redefine, redescribe, rewrite the stories of my life that have been most influential, whether they be good, bad or ugly.  Because yes, I am a little crazy, and I’m okay with that.