Sarah's Juniper Tree

The Mouth of the River: 10 Notes on the Meditative Essay

2012-07-14T09:32:00.001-07:00

The Mouth of the River: 10 Notes on the Meditative Essay

Change of Address

2012-03-05T13:44:00.001-08:00

Sarah's Juniper Tree has moved. Please visit me at:

www.sarahbraud.com

The Best American Essays 2011 Book Club and Other Bookish Things

2012-01-17T08:30:00.000-08:00

This semester's reading list is packed with good lit! I can't wait to read all these books. I'm having a hard time deciding what to read next.

Because I couldn't help myself, I bought every Best American anthology for 2011...Short Stories, Essays, Travel Essays. I also bought Best Spiritual Writing 2012, though I confess I still don't understand the whole dating process.

My good friend and classmate at Vermont College of Fine Arts, John Proctor, has started an online book club for the Best American series, and I am thrilled to be a part of it! I will be partnering with another VCFA grad to facilitate the discussion about The Best Spiritual Writing 2012 in March. You can join in on this month's discussion at Best American Reading Club online. Go and get Best American Essays 2011, editor Robert Atwan, and get reading!

On Embodiment

2011-11-10T14:18:00.000-08:00

(excerpt from an essay I'm currently writing)

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about embodiment. By embodiment, I’m speaking about what’s tangible, like skin, bones, flesh, and blood. And there are also things like the trees, of course, and the paper products made from the trees, the lakes and the carp that scavenge the murky bottom for food. I’ve never been a fan of the tangibles. Taste, touch, hear, smell, sound. Mostly, I’ve seen them only as limitations or, at the very most, things that must be survived or tolerated.

I like ideas, concepts, plans, fantasies, and expectations. I’m a big fan of love and and adventure and spirituality. Spirituality, it’s always seemed to me, is the place beyond the concrete. It’s the untouchable, inexplicable, the magic of life. In all probability, this love of the ineffability of things comes from my religious upbringing, where there was a clear distinction made between things of this world and the things of God.

I certainly don’t want to make it sound like I’m all spiritual and serious. I’m quite the opposite, really. I’m irreverent and inappropriate, and my butt crack hangs out the back of my pants way too often. It’s a problem. The lowrise-pant cut helps my figure, since I’m high-waisted and look like a spider in pants that come up too high, but really it is disastrous when I bend over. But, that kind of makes my point: God, way up over there. Sadly, me and my butt crack, right here. To me, God and butt-cracks seem vastly incongruent.

October Reading List a la Nick Hornby

2011-11-07T20:05:00.000-08:00

Books bought:

Best American Short Stories 2011
Best American Essays 2011
Best American Spiritual Writing 2012 (which, to be honest, confuses me since how can it be possible that someone wrote the best spiritual essays in 2012 when no one has gotten the chance to actually write one since 2012 hasn't actually happened yet? it seems rigged or something. or metaphysical. like there's some tesser or something only spiritual essay writers know about.)
How to read slowly
Celeb cause by Helen Fielding
Friend of my youth by Alice Munro
A son of the circus by John Irving
The Mediator by Meg Cabot

Books read:

Selected Short Stories by Flannery O'Connor (5 stars, of course)
The Situation and the Story (4 stars...great resource for narrative nonfiction)
Crooked Letter, Crooked Letter by Tom Franklin (so far, so good!)
The first three chapters of The Hunger Games because I couldn't find Crooked Letter, Crooked Letter, which was hiding under the couch.

"There and Back Again" Published on Art House America Blog

2011-10-13T12:40:00.000-07:00

There and Back Again

BY SARAH BRAUD IN JUSTICE, PLACE |

In 2003 my husband and I decided to move up north with our three-year-old so that Dave could attend seminary. We left our small Americana town committed to a new idea of living in an urban setting. We felt that we would die of boredom if we stayed in Franklin, Tennessee. How could our lives have any eternal significance in a place of such homogeny and affluence? Finally, we were on our way to living The Life we’d always fantasized about. The city, any city that was charmingly distressed, was the only appropriate setting to live a life worthy of Oprah, er, Christ — feeding the homeless, advocating for social justice, living out the Biblical call to love the poor. We had boundless energy, and a life in the city seemed just the place to expend it.

We hammered down our roots through the concrete and tried to make Philadelphia our home. We sold our second car, purchased bicycles, and applied for food stamps. I relished in the multiculturalism and the three thousand or more murals covering the city walls. Themes of courage, personal renaissance, and heritage emanated through the broken walls of this city that would one day be restored.

Photo: Sarah Braud

But daily living in the city was harder than I expected. I was in a foreign culture with no one to translate for me. I eavesdropped on conversations at the park and tried to fit in. Women with names like Maureen and Kathleen stood on the sidelines — their arms crossed — while their daughters took turns batting. Their faces were weathered and their hair limp and I wondered why they hated me. My hellos were viewed with hostile skepticism. I finally learned to keep smiles to myself. After months of assimilation, I ascertained that imposing my cheery greetings on others was culturally inappropriate.

Read the rest of "There and Back Again" at Art House America Blog.

Southern Women's Response to The Help

2011-08-16T07:51:00.000-07:00

After reading The Help by Kathryn Stockett, I declared it Book of The Year (of course, until I read The Hunger Games). In my humble opinion, it had everything: an engaging plot filled with tension, a setting that breathed with authenticity, everything I love about Southern lit, and characters I wanted to befriend. The characters! They were so alive! I resonated with Skeeter’s battle with society’s expectations on her. I admired Minny’s fierce self-assurance and sassy tongue. My heart broke for Celia’s struggle with infertility and society’s rejection of her for being white trash. I wept over Johnny’s love for his wife in spite of it. I cheered when Hilly ate shit. I wanted approval from Aibileen, a woman who’s standard for character was something I could only aspire to. Most of all, after reading The Help, I wanted someone to press their thumb into my palm—like Constantine did for Skeeter—and remind me who I am.

However, and this is a big however, the further I got from reading the book, the more a tension inside me grew. I began to feel that embarrassing recognition that I had maybe recommended the book a little too loudly (You know, like the shame I felt after having told everyone that Titanic was the best movie I’d ever seen. — Don’t deny it. You said the same thing.) Maybe, I worried, that once others read it, they may have some critical things to say about it. Whatever others thought of it, I now had the metaphorical pebble in my shoe. Something was making me uncomfortable. The pebble turned quickly into a sizable rock, then crumbled into some sharp gravel and now, it just won’t stop grating on my brain: When will our society finally get over our White Savior Complex?

Okay, so I am the girl that named her son after a literary American hero— the ultimate white savior—Atticus Finch. But, we live in different times. What does the American hero look like NOW? Who is fighting injustice NOW? Who is standing up for those who can’t speak NOW? And what color is she? I don’t know about you, but I am worn down with the “White lady saves the poor, helpless black person” story. Dangerous Minds, The Blind Side, and now The Help. It’s played. (Watch this!) Hear me: I liked the movies, but let’s grow. Let's recognize why this storyline is offensive to others, particularly when it is the only version told. Let’s move past the paternalistic adolescence we have been stuck in. Please, will someone write a story with a black hero that doesn’t take place in the ghetto, a check-cashing store or a barbershop? And, if you do, can someone cast a lead other than Will Smith? At the very least for the sake of variety!

That said, after having watched the movie, my thoughts and a conversation I had led me in a different direction. I went to see the movie with five other women. Three white women and three black women. Our conversation was so much less about critiquing the film/book and more about what thoughts the images and story provoked. To be entirely honest, I was very surprised by the black women's response

Harmonie, Jennetta, Alena, Katie, Kathy and Me (not pictured).

After the movie, we wanted to have drinks and discuss the film, but in Franklin there aren’t any places open after 11pm, so we copped a squat on a grassy patch in the parking lot under some cherry trees and talked until the hard ground under our butts pushed us to get into our cars and head home. As a police cruiser drove slowly by us through the empty parking lot, one of the black women, gesturing to us white girls said, “I’m so glad we are with y’all.”

Five of the women were Southern, born and bred, and one was raised up North, but has lived in the South for all of her adult life. The conversation that happened after the movie was one of the richest I have had in awhile.

Allena is the biggest anglophile I know. She wears pearls everywhere she goes. She takes tea every afternoon. She wants to be British. Before children, she was a pharmaceutical sales rep and has high aspirations for a political career. She is the most with-it mother I know and puts me to shame. She's also black and kills any chance to be stereotyped. (And none of it is by accident.) Allena wears her business suit everywhere she goes so that she will not be discriminated against because of her color. Has she been discriminated against? Oh, she's got some stories! She loved The Help. She told us that this was one of the first times she's ever seen a full-character portrait depicted of black women from the Jim Crow era. She didn't care about the paternalism, the lack of more nitty gritty racial injustice that would make it more authentic, the colloquial speech that made Abileen seem simple. She was just so happy to see women from that time period as real people. The only book that she's read that has done it better is The Warmth of Other Suns. Maybe women up North may not think The Help is an authentic portrayal, but Allena thinks it was about as authentic as she's seen. The Great Migration took her family to DC. They were looking for an escape from the blatant racism of the South, but she said the North, for many black families, turned out to just be a kinder mistress.

Kathy is a white woman who I met for the first time last night. She grew up during the civil rights movement. "I had Jerri," she said." I lived Jim Crow." Jerri cleaned house and made dinner everyday. When Kathy was sick, Jerri would pick her up from school and take her to the doctor. "My mama didn't. Jerri did." Kathy said that even to this day she knows that Jerri loved her and her sisters, but also knows and understands why Jerri's children did not. Kathy told us about the race riots that happened the first week of classes at the high school. They had just desegregated and the black and white schools merged, adopting the white school's name, mascot and colors. The first pep rally inaugurated the school with an all white cheerleading squad. The black students protested by standing up during the pep rally, fists pumped to the sky, and walked out.

Jenn is a thirty-something black mother from Kentucky. "That was my aunts," she said referring to the help. "My grandmother. They were all The Help." Her aunts and grandmother did not want Jenn's mother stifled in the small town. So when the opportunity for her to go to cosmetology school and move to a more metropolitan city in the state, they encouraged her to leave her son with with them so that she would have a "chance". During the summers Jenn would visit her grandmother (retired at the time) and her aunt who stilled cleaned houses and helped raise white children. Jenn never knew what it was like for them; "They never shared the details of their days. Of course, who would want to? I was never allowed to go, even if I was sick. My aunt would come home after working all day, cook us all dinner, and then she'd fall asleep over her plate of food. I just remember her being so tired!!" She continued, "As I was watching the movie, something clicked in my head. As Abileen was telling Mae Mobley, "You is kind. You is intelligent. You is important", who is telling all the children of "the help" these things when they are so tired they can't see straight when they got home? Could this be a factor in the breakdown of the African American family? It was very hard to hear how "the help" raised white children, and then their own children and then had to keep up with their own households, as well. This meant there were generations of stable households in many white families. What was going on in their homes? Hmmm...makes you wonder.....

Katie is a thirty-something white woman raised in Pennsylvania. She has lived all her adult life in the South and seeks to right any injustices she sees, but generally focuses on those she sees in her local churches and schools. Katie is the most prolific reader I know. She reads it all. Chick-lit to historical nonfiction. The girl is a sponge with a sharp mind and even sharper tongue. She loved the book more than the movie, of course. There were too many complex issues the movie didn't even address that were portrayed in the book. The injustice done to Constantine needed to be in there, Katie thought. She brought up that while the racism against blacks in Franklin is still very much alive, the fear of immigrants in the public schools is the most blatant form of racism she witnesses on a daily basis. White families are rushing to get their kids out of the increasingly diverse public schools, taking with them funding and single-income families that can afford to have one parent volunteer at school. "We don't like what we don't know," Katie said. "Our nature is to always be ready to ostracize."

Harmonie is a new Franklin resident. She was born and raised in Memphis and told us that at 32, this is the first year of her life she's ever been in a white person's home. Harmonie was quiet during most of our discussion, but shared with us what was going through her mind. "What I was thinking about during the movie is something I have always struggled with. My grandmother picked cotton, but I don't know anything about my family previous to my grandmother's mother. Three generations back there were slaves in my family, but I don't know much else. I wish I knew more. I do remember my Grandma would call white people 'white folk,' like in the movie. I don't have history." Harmonie graduated with a high GPA from high school and was encouraged to attend college by the school counselor. Harmonie had no framework for why that was even a good option. So, instead of college, she went to hair school. But, at age 25, she finally enrolled. Her first semester on campus, at The University of Memphis, she returned to her car and found a note tucked underneath her windshield wiper. The note said, "I hate you people. Don't ever park next to my car again." Harmonie held her breath after sharing that story and it made me wonder if she'd ever told it to a white person before.

***

I felt so honored to have these women share their stories with me. If movies like The Help spur Southern women, white and black, to tell their stories, I will go see them. The women I saw the movie with weren't offended by the simplistic portrayal of Aibileen's character. "You is kind. You is good. You is intelligent," did not disturb my friends. They knew Aibileen's wisdom was coming from a deep place. Of course, I still think it is appropriate to think critically about what it says about our society that movies like The Help are being made or, probably more importantly, why there aren't more movies/books written by minorities about their experience. Do I want to see more movies made that cast women and men of color as full-bodied, intelligent, complex, authentic leads and heros? Do I want to live in a world that gives everyone equal access to an audience that wants to hear their stories? I think movies like The Help remind us that the relationship between races still has a long way to go. Mostly, for me, it has made me question to whose stories and voices do I listen?

To read more responses to The Help, check out this blog's collection of responses to The Help. Pretty amazing how varying, and heavy hitting, the critiques are!

First BiMonthly "Diagnose Me" Contest

2011-04-18T07:34:00.000-07:00

Hypochondriacs live a fulfilling and rich life. Fantasies are good for the creative mind. Fantasizing about disease and death create neural pathways that connect the left-brain (more analytic side) and the right-brain (the creative side). Hypochondriacs, by in large, have a higher intelligence quotient than non-hypochondriacs. Though this information is not researched, it is proven by the opinions and anecdotal evidence of my hypochondriac sister, mother and myself.

In light of this evidence, I thought we could all participate in a brain-stimulating activity that is good for all of our health. The Diagnose Me contest will begin with a few symptoms, and will add symptoms as they arise. Your job will be to guess the corresponding illness. The worse the diagnosis, the higher your points. The correct diagnosis, however, wins. (The rationale behind the scoring need not be explained and might only be understood by those of equal or greater intelligence than the judge.)

Caveat 1: Self-Diagnostics is a medical craft that can only be certified by an accredited foundation. However, lay practice can never hurt.

Here is your first challenge:

Patient: Dave

Profile: 38 year old, male. Married. Father of Two. Photographer. Technical Writer.

Symptoms: Numb foot for two days. Tingling hand. Both right side of body.

Potential causes: Tick bite, one week prior to onset of symptoms.

Diagnose Me!

Leave your diagnoses in the comment box. Winner will be declared after Dave consults a licensed physician.

Confessions of a Failed Track Star

2011-04-08T10:45:00.000-07:00

My mother, after I won a blue ribbon at Brockett Elementary's Field Day mile run event, decided to sign me up for the Atlanta Coca~Cola's Children's Road Race. The race was a month away and my mom began my training regimen. After school, I had to complete three laps around my block. Neither of us were sure of the distance, but she guesstimated it was close to a mile. She'd time me every day, sometimes standing on the front lawn with a stop watch, sometimes she'd glance at the stove clock and guesstimate that I was slower that time.

On race day, as she drove me down interstate 85 toward Peachtree Road, my mother had one piece of coaching advice: "Stay in third place. Then, in the last stretch, make a break for it." I stored her advice in a bubble in my chest. The bubble swelled under her tutelage. She believed in me. I believed in me. I just knew I was going to win.

We exited the freeway and followed signs to parking, driving slowly past crowds of pedestrians in running attire. We were flagged into a crammed parking lot by men in t-shirts and sandals, smocked in bright orange vests. "You'll need to hurry," they shouted as we got out of the car. "They are about to start.

Mom and I scurried to the sign in table. I pulled on my Real Coke shirt and Mom quickly pinned on my race number. We could see the starting line banner a few blocks up and began pushing through the crowd. About a block from the starting line, we heard a gun shot and the crowd around us jolted into a collective stampede. I was in the race. My mom was in the race. We were jostled around until we crossed the starting line and I, apparently was in third place. Third from last place, that is. All clad in red t-shirts, we swarmed down the street and I was simply one among thousands.

My dreams of breaking the finish-line tape floated away. The bubble inside my chest didn't pop, but simply deflated to a soapy film. Oh well, I thought, at least I got this cool t-shirt. My life as a track star was over. My mother retired her position as coach as well. We never mentioned the race again and when I went to high school, I tried out for drill team. Mom didn't attempt to give me any pointers. I was on my own. And I was okay with that.

Unnecessary Quotations

2011-03-31T17:24:00.000-07:00

I just can't handle unnecessary quotations. Few things peeve me more than this heinous grammatical crime. This sign actually caused a bowel movement. But, my view of humanity was restored when I saw that one costumer mocked the sign with her own mandate: Please clean bathroom! -customer. Unfortunately, she leaves me with an itchy brain by not completely the mocking by adding unnecessary quotes around "clean." Please, if you plan on mocking a sign with unnecessary quotations, please, "FINISH" the job! - Management.

For those of you willing to admit that you, like the sad sack who wrote this sign, have the same offensive problem with grammar, please take advantage of this pocket-sized resource available at your local Amazon.com.

I won! I won!

2011-03-01T06:51:00.000-08:00

2011 Numero Cinq Erasure Contest
My entry was not nearly as amazing as the announcement of the winner, so I think I will share that instead:

At long last, after much delay occasioned by feckless judges who are next thing to derelicts and juvenile delinquents, using Numéro Cinq expense accounts to go on sea and surf vacations in Guadeloupe, stock their wine cellars, and buy braces for their kids. One judge financed matching face lifts for himself and his dog out of his NC per diems. This is what the management has to put up with. On the other hand, the judges are in unanimous agreement for a change. Their matchless literary tastes have coincided. And who cares about their personal foibles as long as they deliver pristine and irreproachable judgments—eventually?

And to this end, all the NC judges agreed, that for wit and arrogance, this time, no one could touch Sarah Braud’s entry (with or without the “illegal” numbers). The finalists were brilliant, but there was just too much twist in the tail of Sarah’s last line to resist. And in a literary world where often the words are delivered by and meant for men, this entry flips the entire culture on its head—starting with the words “rules” followed by the deliciously subversive “Avoid exercise.” It does it with sublime timing, exuberance and mischievous glee.

Congratulations! Three cheers! 21-gun salute! You are now the object of envy of the Entire Literary World, possibly the Universe. Soon people who barely know you will be asking for help with their entries for the next NC contest (and possibly small loans). One piece of advice: Do not accept emails from NC Contributing Editors asking you for credit card and bank account information. It is simply not true that Rich Farrell needs your help to succeed to that $1 million inheritance from his Mexican uncle.

The list of OFFICIAL ENTRIES for this year’s contest is here. And the PEOPLE’S CHOICE winner is here. The Official Finalists are here.

The winning entry reads:

I have laid down the Rules:
1. Avoid Exercise.
2. Make art.
3. Follow a man who helps you and lets you hit him.

—Sarah Braud

(Text swiped from Numéro Cinq online literary magazine)Clearly, the judges at Numero Cinq are brilliant (evidenced by their final choice). If you'd like to read more of their brilliance: check out Douglas Glover's lastest novel, Elle.

Fits and Spurts

2011-02-15T15:25:00.000-08:00

I try to be consistent. I really do. But, I have also started embracing the me that is sporadic. Maybe not-cleaning-up-as-you-go can be a positive attribute. Growing up, we would clean our bedrooms on Saturdays. During the week, though, it all went to pot. Clothes, dirty dishes, homework, crafts, blankets from our forts and more would end up littering our bedrooms, and we were content to live in the squaller. Saturday morning though, after our routine cartoon watching, we'd head to our rooms and Mom would call us more than once to use our elbow grease.

There is nothing wrong with that system. Am I right? If you aren't in the mood to clean up after yourself day-in, day-out, it's fine, as long as, at some point, the elbow is greased and life is put back in order, cobwebs removed and mold is kept at bay. It's all a facade anyhow. The illusion that we are in control of something. We aren't really. Cleaning is for those who need that fantasy of control. The real risk-takers are those who cast off discipline and perseverance for the less neurotic form of living, mop-free.

Did you see those babies in the documentary aptly entitled Babies? You had your clean and safe North American and Asian babies with their FDA and APA-approved car seats and organic, toxin free baby wipes. Then you had your rolling in the red dirt and sleeping with the rooster babies from Mongolia and Africa. And that baby from Mongolia just made me feel like butter. What a happy child. Even when his brother whacked him behind his mother's back. Even when he almost put himself through an involuntary brist climbing off a rusty barrell, in the middle of a cow pasture. That mama was not worried about keeping her yurt germ free. But, I digress.

My point is, I am not consistent. With anything. Cleaning, writing, you name it. But that doesn't necessarily have to be a character flaw. It can be a conduit of inspiration. Like, right now, for example. Instead of cleaning up to cook dinner, I'm snatching this precious 25 minutes alone to write on my blog. Even if I tried to be consistent, which I have, I'd fail. So, I will embrace the spurts and the sputters and the fails. I will name it something positive, have it branded and start raising funds to support a non-profit that promotes healthy living through waiting for the mood to strike. You watch. It'll be a national trend soon. And I'll be giving advice on how not to do the dishes.

Why you should read Mystery and Manners again.

2011-01-29T12:03:00.000-08:00

The rationalist approaches the peacock and sees, possibly at first glance, beauty. But, after the beauty has worn off and the tomatoes have all been eaten off the vine, the scientist hears nothing but the screeches and sees nothing but dinner. The writer, however, sees the King of the Birds.

The writer writes because, when the rationalist is done with all the defining and the categorizing and the mystery of life has finally been “revealed” and exhaustively understood, more mystery is found underneath it. Flannery O’Connor, in Mystery and Manners, says that if you are asked to explain what you are writing about, the only sensible answer is to say, “Read the story.” If what we write about can easily be summed up in a one-sentence theme, then why have we wasted our time writing for pages? It is, in fact, impossible to divide the theme from the story, just as it is impossible to divide the incarnated Christ from God Himself. The mystery cannot be understood without the body, the tangible, just as the concrete cannot be understood without mystery. Flannery writes that stories cannot be limited to character motivation or right theology. The writer “has to be concerned with these only because the meaning of his story does not begin except at the depth where these things have been exhausted." This must, I believe, be the litmus test I use to assess my own writing, though O’Connor would laugh at the irony of my applying human formula to measuring Mystery.

Mystery, Flannery says, is an unflinching look at the true condition of humanity and all of its horrors, and finding that the God who evaluates it all has deemed it worthy to die for. Religion doesn’t limit the artist; it, in fact, frees the artist to see the fullness of the human experience. If God accepts it all, then who are we to look away. As a doubt-filled believer, I can firmly take hold of this call to not try to understand it all, but to tell all of what I see, particularly in the deep recesses of my heart and mind. The role of uncertainty is possibly one of the main tools the Christian artist must use in interpreting life through art.

Manners would then be the what of what I see: the daily routines, the accents, the figures of speech, the clicks and tics, my conflicting thoughts, the sinner and the saint in each character. A whole character does not live since there is no such thing on the earth. The broken, whole-enough or thoroughly shattered person lives, not because the writer makes her live, but because something else has brought her to life. As soon as my writing takes a turn into certainty, I have surely let my writing die. I will leave conclusions and explanations to the scientists and theologians. I will push off the false burden of the fate of souls and I will concentrate on the burden of creating art.

The role of the grotesque in Flannery’s writing has more to do with actual truth than with any exaggeration of it. The “normal” Bible salesman steals a woman’s wooden leg, not because she needed to make up a dramatic conflict, but because that is exactly what the Bible salesman wanted to do. It was inevitable. In writing nonfiction, however, it is not the inevitable that I can harvest but the regrettable.

As a Christian, the regrettable is a necessary subject, because, as Flannery says, Redemption is meaningless unless there is cause for it. Again, the only way to achieve this is to leave the mystery part to Mystery and specialize in the concrete. My past embarrassments and shames and my current foibles and regional manners must be written if I am to write anything that signals to Mystery. Now, because I am not a bank robber or meth addict, I will have to make the distortions and disfigurements of my character appear as distortions, since most modern readers will find them shameless.

Because of this challenge, I believe that the role of the grotesque is of even higher impotance for the nonfiction writer. How can I charge myself as being racist when the majority of the western world wants to absolve himself of any chance of being one? How can I show my own disbelief when the Christian reader can discount my salvation so easily? I will either be dismissed as an extremist either way. However, I think if I write about my humanness, my successes as well as my failures, the universality of truth will shine through. The grotesqueness of my life is one of the extreme gulfs between faith and belief, love and hate. Both present at all times in me.

To me, this ends the creative non-fiction debate. I do think it is wise to build trust with your reader by establishing a relationship of integrity with words; however, the commitment to the “greater truth” must be held higher than the commitment to accuracy. If my writing is to help the almost-blind to see, exaggeration and hyperbole become guide-dogs. Not only are they allowed, but they are required for safe navigation for the visually impaired.

O’Connor’s fusing the Sacred and Secular is a fight against the fundamentalist culture of evangelicalism, though it is not a modern conflict. From the Gnostics to the Opus Dei sect of the Catholic Church, there are plenty of the religious who want to curse the body and all that is not “of heaven.” However, what Flannery makes plain for the writer who may not get it: Mystery and Manners are both of this world and of heaven, like Jesus himself, God made Man. So, Flannery said to me, “Girl, if you are gonna write about anything worth reading about, you will write your freckles, your patched-up asphalted street, your father’s cry of repentance—“Foul Number 10!”—your wickedly precocious ten year old—how you admire her and fear her, your gluttony for highly salted soul-food and smoked meats, your hyperactive six year old—how you want to swallow him and how his eyebrows swirl into his forehead and hypnotize everyone he meets.” The big Mystery is that my life, as banally quotidian as most that began in 1973 in Atlanta, Georgia, is the dream life of angels and is to be paraded, only God knows why, like a peacock.

Love Dogs

2011-01-24T15:14:00.000-08:00

I was fortunate to have the chance to get to know Dr. Richard McCann at the Vermont College of Fine Arts residency. I was assigned to his workshop and, with every piece that we looked at critically, like a surgeon, he cut to the heart of everyone's narratives. He kept pushing each of us to find the motive underneath our motives. Our workshop was like writing class and group therapy rolled into one. I left each day with a deep sense that a magical connection was being made among our faculty leaders (Richard and Sascha Feinstein) and the other writing students.

One of my worries going into a graduate writing program was exposing my writing to people who did not share my similar worldview. However, it has always been my hope that my writing would surpass the boundaries of the Christian literary market and would stand up under the scrutiny of even the most cynical reader. I want my writing to be universal, for someone, anyone, who reads it to be able to connect with my experience and see themselves. I thought for sure that I would be grilled and misunderstood and ridiculed or worse: dismissed.

However, that has not been my experience at all. Okay, certainly there may have been those who have dismissed me, my interpretations, and religious assumptions; however, none have overtly. Well, there was the one professor who refused to say hello to me when I waved, but I think that may have had more to do with his poor eye sight than his desire to cold-shoulder me. In fact, Richard McCann congratulated me on my bravery for writing about spirituality. Because I knew a brief history of how the Church at large has hurt McCann, I feared his bitterness toward it would turn toward me. Not only is McCann not bitter, but also generous in spirit— he made gestures toward me that were incredibly nurturing and life-giving.

As I was finding my seat on the airport shuttle on the last day of residency, I was pleased to see Richard there. I was hoping for a few more minutes with this brilliant man. After a few minutes, we realized that we were on the same flight to DC, where I would then switch planes and he would de-board for home.

After watching a harrowing episode of Hoarders on hulu.com together in the airport lobby, we sat next to each other on the plane. Richard shared a poem with me someone had previously sent him. With his melodic, raspy voice he read the poem "Love Dogs" by Rumi, translated into English by a writer and prof at the University of Georgia. As he read this poem to me, I instantly realized that Truth is Truth and Mystery is Mystery, no matter where you find it, and the cynic in me that fears all the other cynics in the world was silenced.

Love Dogs

One night a man was crying Allah! Allah!

His lips grew sweet with praising,

until a cynic said, “So!

I’ve heard you calling out, but have you ever

gotten any response?”

The man had no answer to that.

He quit praying and fell into a confused sleep.

He dreamed he saw Khidr, the guide of souls,

in a thick, green foliage.

“Why did you stop praising?” “Because

I’ve never heard anything back.”

“This longing you express

is the return message.”

The grief you cry out from

draws you toward union.

Your pure sadness

that wants help

is the secret cup.

Listen to the moan of a dog for its master.

That whining is the connection.

There are love dogs

no one knows the names of.

Give your life

to be one of them.

Thanks to Richard and Rumi, the cynics' questions aren't as scary anymore (no matter how many answers I cannot give them.) I will continue to whine until my Master comes home.

What Actually Stuck

2011-01-23T12:49:00.000-08:00

A Series of summaries from the lectures I attended at my writing residency. At my age, my neural pathways are mostly carved. So, I strive, in my graduate education, to retain just a smidgeon more. This is a record, not of what I was taught, but of what actually stuck.

Ellen Lesser

SWEET CHARIOT: REDEMPTION IN END-TIMES AMERICA

It seems appropriate to look at apocalyptic literature when trying to craft the end of a short story. Ellen’s lecture was tailored for the fiction writer, but I found much of it to be helpful in nonfiction craft as well. The current thinking in regards to certainty in the end of life, and even the end of the world as we know it, must be taken into consideration when you are writing for the current reader. What is certain about life? What is certain about salvation? What is certain in these times of global warming, inevitable environmental implosion, and world wars? The writer must be aware of what the general human consensus is if she is to connect with her readers in any real way.

Ellen’s passion for her craft seeped through every sentence of her lecture. I left with not just more tools for writing, but with a deep sense of inspiration. I want to love and know my area of concentration like this brilliant, incredibly human person. I am jealous of all the fiction writers who get to work with her this semester. However, one thing that I added to my writer’s toolbox was the knowledge of how to pitch your language to fit the tone of your subject.

End times stories demand Biblical language. Ellen took us through three short stories included in the anthology Best American Short Stories released annually. She walked us slowly through each story and pointed out how Rescue and Redemption now look to the 21^st century reader—and believe me, it doesn’t look good. In fact, if you were to take the three short stories we read, you’d think we were a real cynical lot. Rescue and Redemption look more like gates into the deeper levels of hell. Is optimism even possible in the current climate?

The stories were riddled with religious imagery. There were snakes present, floods, hell-fire smoke, mentions of Eden, crosses, vines and sanctuaries. The infusion of Biblical terms and images worked to support the story’s consideration of how we should live in the end of days.

Of course, my mind honed in instead on poop imagery. Though Ellen kept directing our gaze to the religious slant of the language, I kept hearing the doo-doo slant. (I know, I have Freudian issues.) The story that took place in New Orleans during the Katrina flood was infused with the words refuse, shit, brown chop, crap, log roller, septic, boat hole (maybe that is a stretch, but I swear I heard “butthole”), movement, dump, shit storm.

My bodily function fixation, upon reflection, explains my unfailing optimism even in the end of times. (Wait for it.) I watched the language through all the pieces go from shit to compost to vine-ripened tomatoes. I saw that the writer had included gardens bursting with fruit right in the middle of the protagonist’s apocalypse. The best tasting tomatoes were growing next to his outhouse. Therefore my worldview: Even when life goes to shit, there is another power at work that can turn it all to nourishment. Ah, redemption! Oh, I like this whole pitching language business.

Of course, Lesser taught us so much more, but, alas, that is all of what actually stuck.

Lesser spent most of her time looking at “Rubiaux Rising” by Steve De Jarnatt, chosen for Best American Short Stories 2009, a story about a detoxing junkie trapped in his grandmother’s attic during Hurricane Katrina is miraculously airlifted to safety. You might want to read the end if you want to know what happens when the world does end.

What Actually Stuck

2011-01-21T11:36:00.000-08:00

Patrick Madden’s Lecture: WHERE THE ESSAYS ARE

Pat has a nuanced sense of humor that infiltrates his writing and his speaking. Even when he is unsmiling, there seems to be a smirk hiding under the surface that keeps the listener/reader on her toes, waiting for the punch line. He’s kind of adorable in an overly earnest-kind-of-way. Like the Colin Firth of the Essay World, Mr. Darcy without the scowl—though his intelligence and stature can intimidate even the stoutest of students. I highly recommend his collection of essays Quotidiana.

Madden's writing allows you to sit, breath and enjoy his current of thought which generally leads to happy seas of the mundane. I guarantee you’ll want to hug him, or someone close by, after you read his stuff.

At the residency, Pat gave a practical lecture on getting your essays published. Though, you’ll have to forgive him for sneaking in lessons on the true nature of the classical essay, he cannot stop himself:

The Personal Essay…

Is Not an article; Articles set out to prove something.
Is Not a composition; Compositions are the cancer of the essayists mind—Beware: 5 paragraph essays may cause internal hemorrhaging! In fact, Madden might go as far as to say that the 5 paragraph-essay-structure is a blight on the face of American education.
Is out to ponder something, to follow your meditative thoughts through all their wandering paths, through scenes and reflections, not knowing where they will lead. To understand the real essay, you must know its birth and history: St. Augustine wrote his Confessions, delivering a new genre of writing into the literary canon. Michel de Montaigne, the Father of the Personal Essay, nurtured the form into its maturity. Visit Madden’s website, www.quotidiana.org, for a buffet of short, classical essays. You’ll be surprised by how enjoyable these quick reads are. My personal favorite: Of a Monstrous Child, about Montaigne’s experience seeing a conjoined twin (or should I say conjoined twins if he had only one head?) on the road to town. It’s actually very comforting to know what hideous thoughts others have. That is the point, in my opinion, of the personal essay: To humanize our own monsters lurking inside. Of course, Madden has fewer monstrous thoughts than I, so his tastes in essays lean toward the beauty of the world, mine toward the grotesque.

Publishing is a noble goal for the writer, and therefore, Pat gave us a few tips to take with us in our pursuits. His first advice was to read literary publications, get to know the personalities of some journals in order to know which of your pieces would be a good fit. I have found the blog Essay Daily to be a great resource for finding nonfiction journals. The blog has a fabulous list on the right sidebar called “Homes for the Essay,” which is fairly exhaustive. I’m still trying to find the journals that are just “so me.” I’ll be sure to let you know when I do. Many editors, Pat reveals to us, read only the introductions of submissions, so you need to make sure the guts and glory of your writing show up in the first few paragraphs.

Of course, Madden shared much more with us, but, alas, that is all of what actually stuck.

Ball Juggling 201

2011-01-19T12:24:00.000-08:00

One semester of grad school down, three to go.

Clearly, being a full-time student added to my list of roles has kept me from updating my blog! But, as I learn to negotiate the highways and byways of life as a student, I am seeing the road with more clarity.

I have spent the past six months reading 16 books—most of which were creative non-fiction, written 6 critical essays, 6 book reviews and 150 pages of creative work, and attended two residencies—22 days worth—in Vermont! I have loved every minute of it, and it is very out of the norm for me not to be whining about something! (I'm sure the antidepressants help some, but there are some things that pills just can't cure.)

I'm starting the semester strong, reading some amazing stuff. Though it will be no surprise to anyone, I'm enjoying Flannery O'Connor—What a smart cookie! Mystery and Manners would have to be my favorite book on writing so far. I have underlined just about every sentence. My book just looks ridiculous...My underlining was supposed to cue me when I look back to see what I should include in my critical essay. I hope my professor this semester is ready for rewritten copy. Maybe I'll just change the font and he won't recognize it.

Speaking of my advisor, I have a new one! Patrick Madden, my brilliant essay-expert of a professor from last semester has been shared with five other students and I will miss his critiques and encouragement. But, I will continue with my education of the classical essay on his site Quotidiana. I will be working this semester with the memoirist and biographer Lawrence Sutin. His work is incredible and I am loving A Postcard Memoir. The level of academic excellence we are being exposed to at VCFA is fantastic. Every time I go to research one of the faculty, I am amazed at the amount of google tags that open up. Seriously. I've decided that my next goal in life is to have a Wikipedia page dedicated to my accomplishments. It'll be one of those long-ass entries that talks about my childhood in Tucker, GA, including the baby kangaroo we had as a pet. Of course, my more technical creative nonfictionist classmates will charge me with inaccurate information....(So what if it wasn't a baby kangaroo? It was a wallaby. Same diff.) You can't just add yourself either. I've tried. It'll be up for one day and then someone out in Wiki Land deletes your entire entry, officially saying that your life is just not important enough. They may have a point. Whoever "they" is.

So, if you are up for it. We can have a mini-online book club. It'll be called: Don't you wish you'd get credit for reading this book like me? Book 1: Mystery and Manners

by Flannery O'Connor. Book 2: A Postcard Memoir

by Lawrence Sutin. You can even order these books straight from my blog. Yippeee! The memoir has beautifully-written lyrical essays that were inspired by Sutin's postcard collection. I have enjoyed reading them (each essay is quite short) and then using some of the postcard images for my own inspiration to write.

Feel free to leave comments about the books. We can have a dialogue going in my comments box. If you say something really interesting, I might even include it in my critical essay. Though, I won't cite you, if that's okay. Just know that imitation is the biggest form of flattery.

So, as I continue to strike a balance with teaching, schooling, parenting, and living, I will try to bring in more blogging. What's one more ball to juggle? If I drop one, well, that'll just be more balls to shag. And, who doesn't like a good shag every now and then?

Offering a Hand

2010-08-28T10:01:00.000-07:00

Here is a selection from an essay I am writing. First draft, but I thought I'd share it anyway. Feel free to give some critical feedback!

He looked like any other kind, elderly black man: rocking gently on the cinderblock front porch of his subsidized home, tired after years of living— having survived a few wars, the lynching of a few relatives, integration. His slight, wrinkled body, dark and weathered by the sun and the years, seemed one with his chair. Each morning during the fall semester, I walked past the government-housing complex just a block off campus, and thought about the unfairness of life and the tragedy of a man who was forced to navigate life as a black man in a white world. “Good morning!” I’d call and wave to him, thankful for the opportunity to share the love of God with a lonely old man.

One particular morning, before the sun had fully risen and the haze of the dawn was still making the world seem wobbly, I was walking sleepily to class when I caught his eye. I didn’t want to wave this morning, I was tired from staying up too late the night before watching a 90210 marathon on cable. He blinked his black eyes slowly and they reminded me of a horse’s eyes, red and watery, but with the depth of soul and the wisdom of experience. I stretched my lips into a half smile and raised my hand in an attempt at being friendly. He smiled a big, toothless grin and waved his one hand back at me. Oh, did I mention he only had one arm? I immediately felt guilty. Here I was, this able bodied, young white girl, given every opportunity and I was too tired to say hello.

I was never really a fan of the acronym WWJD, promoted by the more commercial brand of my faith, but, this morning, I knew what Jesus would do. So, I stopped, my smile working its way to a full grin and asked warmly, “How is your day going?” The old man called something back to me, though I imagine his being toothless made clear articulation hard work. I walked up on the sidewalk, as I had been walking in the street, and faced him.

“What’s that?” I asked, my bright smile shining the light of Jesus directly at him.

“I need some love,” he said.

Not sure I understood him correctly, I asked for clarification again.

I didn’t want this man to feel foolish for not being intelligible. After all, it really wasn’t his fault. Lack of education and lack of dental care had taken its toll. I thought it was particularly heroic that here he was, a handicapped man, every morning, fully-dressed at 6:45, in his baggy, plaid button down shirt, brown suspenders and blue Dickies.

“I need some love!” he called louder and more clearly this time. “Twenty dollars. I’ll give you twenty dollars to come on up on this porch and give me some love.”

Shocked, I said what every self-respecting, independent college woman would say: “No, sir!”

Living a Better Story

2010-08-21T10:45:00.001-07:00

Remember this blog post?

***

from January 6, 2010

The beginning of my pursuit of writing began last year. I started reading a book recommended by a creative writing professor at Vanderbilt called Writing Fiction, a Guide to Narrative Craft, by Janet Burroway. Writing Fiction is a text that walks the reader through the many elements and qualities of a compelling story and provocative writing. Like Donald Miller in his new book A Million Miles in a Thousand Years, I have gotten excited as I connect the components of what it takes to write a good story to what it takes to LIVE a good story. Story is a theme I am thinking about daily. How do we live out this narrative we experience as life and how does it connect to the larger Meta-Narrative? These questions have reinforced for me anew my hope in the Christian story laid out in the Bible and have pushed me to ask myself how my personal story fits in that larger mystery.

Guided by Donald Miller's latest blog entry, Living a Good Story, An Alternative to New Year's Resolutions, I have decided to apply the elements of writing a good story to living a better story. As outlined in his post, instead of New Years Resolutions, I am going to "think in narrative rather than goals. The goals get met in the journey of the story."

To start, a story begins with a character who wants something enough to endure conflict and suffering to get it.

"...in order to engage our attention and sympathy, the protagonist must want, and want intensely. The thing that the character wants need not be violent or spectacular; it is the intensity of the wanting that introduces an element of danger."- pg. 33, Burroway.

So, here's question number 1. at the start of 2010: What do I want? Though I have several desires for this year, I think I will only focus on a few to be intense about. :) The "intensity" thing wears me out a bit. I'm not sure how much danger I want. Though, if I look at it that way, I can always avoid danger by choosing several TV shows to really be into this year. I could make sure to catch every episode, sacrificing all that comes in my way. But, I remember quickly, that doesn't make a good story. And who wants to look back at the end of 2010 and say they had a great year keeping up with what happens to Quinn Fabray's baby (not saying that a healthy obsession with the love triangle of Quinn, Finn and Puck is wrong, it just isnt very soul-fulfilling, in the end.)

One of the things I do want is to grow as a writer. I am willing to give up some things: mainly money (MFA programs are no joke). I will battle the fear that I am wasting our families financial resources. (They could be used to send Ellie to camp or get Atticus stellar drum lessons, or even more guilt: to buy Dave professional photography equipment that will grow his business! O the guilt!) I also have to let go of my deeply imbedded bad theology that leads me to believe that "nurturing my creative self" is selfish and, honestly, a bit new-agey. (Yes, I KNOW that God is Creator and by creating I am "imaging" him. But knowing something and believing it are two completely different things altogether!)

Another component that makes a good story, as outlined beautifully by Mr. Miller, is the "climactic scene". Writers know a story always leads to the pivotal scene. All of the action is leading up to that one event.

"They know their entire movie is heading toward that scene where Frodo throws the ring into the fire. And they write the movie to get him there."

That leads to Question #2: What scene am I headed for? What is my climactic scene? I am currently applying for grad schools. Its fairly exhausting work. I had to study for the GRE and suffer the pain of having my intelligence quantified by that stupid left-brain dominated exam (My boss told me to stop ripping the scab off that wound, but clearly I enjoy watching the blood letting!) I also had to write twenty-five pages for a writing sample. I have to still write a critical analysis of a literary work, and so on. However, this IS all headed somewhere: To my first "Writers in Residence" experience! I am applying for low-residency MFA programs that will include 7-10 days on campus going to workshops, writing, dialoguing, and editing my and others' pieces. In effect, I get to spend a whole week taking my creative self seriously! I get to call myself a writer!

I picture myself in a group of the cool kids (or, to be more realistic, a weirdo ecclectic group of socially awkward, potentially introverted, writer-types) discussing the political, social and spiritual problems of the world and then inspiring one another to write about them creatively (all while eating our lunch from a plastic tray from the university's dining hall). The scene includes my sitting underneath a tree on the university lawn writing til my hand falls off, sitting in an auditorium taking extensive notes from a lecture given by one of my favorite writers...Donald Miller, perhaps?

Don advises that, "Once you have that climactic scene in mind, you’ll know the scenes it takes to get there. Also, write this stuff down. Even if you just throw it away, write down what that climactic scene looks like, smells like and feels like. It will get in your brain and like a good protagonist in a great movie, you’ll wake every day knowing what you are supposed to do with your time."

Characters don't want to change. We really don't like it. We fight against it. We sit on our couches and watch too much hulu.com because we like comfort. Characters in a story need INCITEMENT, something that forces them to change. "An inciting incident is the event in a movie that causes upheaval in the protagonist life. The protagonist, then, naturally seeks to return to stability. And in order to do that, he HAS to solve his new problem. In Taken, Liam Neeson’s daughter is kidnapped and he MUST find her."

Question 3: What will force me to do this? Well, first of all, embarrassment. I have just told the blogging world my goal. If I don't do it, if I flake on my deadlines and don't get into any school, I have to admit it. Bringing people into my story has helped. Melinda Franklin (as previously defined as my Editor) and my other writing partner, Leslie Mitchell, have read my short story, spent time editing it, and care what I do with it. I will let them down if I don't follow through. They will have wasted their time. I do not want to let them down! Telling people my deadlines, for example, is another way to incite me to action. January 15th and March 1. All the schools I am applying to are due around then. Now, see there, I HAVE to turn them in on time because some of you are going to ask me about it. And, again, I do not want to fail you. :)

I will also need to make some extra dough for it to happen, and I think that fits in the "overcoming conflict bit", but I will try to figure out the inciting incident that will force me to make the money to pay for tuition. I'll need more time to think of that one. I'm not really motivated easily there. Any suggestions?

***

As I continue to pursue being a better writer, I celebrate my moments of victory...getting accepted into Vermont College of Fine Arts, attending my first residency this summer (the plastic tray in my vision was accurate, at least). But, my journey is far from over. The small hilly obstacles on the horizon get closer, I see that they are not actually hills, but mountains. Publication seems far off, making any money at writing seems unlikely. Maybe Donald Miller's conference in Portland will inspire me! Don directly applies literary concepts and techniques that he has learned at various conferences about how to write a better story to how to life a better life. Do you wanna go with me?

Check out the conference link here: www.donmilleris.com/conference or watch his video add for his conference:

Living a Better Story Blog Contest from Donald Miller on Vimeo.

VCFA Days

2010-07-29T19:09:00.000-07:00

My life as a graduate student began June 27th as I pulled up to Vermont College of Fine Arts' campus in Montpelier, Vermont. I spent ten days living in a dorm with one hundred and fifty other writers of fiction, poetry and creative non-fiction ranging from twenty-two year olds to, well, graying-hair year olds. From the cafeteria to the non-airconditioned dorms to the nightly boozing, the residency was in every way a college experience. Oh, I suppose I should include the lectures, workshops and readings. But those ended up being periphery to the core of my stay.

I met some fascinating people (like "Mayor Dave", who procured the nickname after only two days of schmoozing and making friends with even the "5th Semester Students", who are equivelant to the high school popular kids on campus) and some not so fascinating people (like "Angry Dave", who earned his nickname after reading his misogynistic, bitter poetry...I started locking my dorm door after hearing him read.) Is that bad that I just posted that on a public space? I mean, I didn't post his last name. And you also can't be that sure that he is in fact a he. He may be a her. We just might happen to call her "Angry Dave" cause she might look like "Mayor Dave", just angrier. But, I digress...

Since returning from Vermont, I have been a camp counselor for a week, unpacked myself and family, taught a summer course at Vanderbilt (which ended yesterday) and now am packing to head to Philadelphia for a week. I am really looking forward to returning home to begin a routine! School starts August 12 for the kids...Hallelujah! I will have more time to schedule my writing and not just have to sneak off and write as many pages as I can before one of my children demands to be fed (I hate that! They can be so demanding sometimes. You'd think popcorn would be enough, but children these days are so entitled.) Needless to say, my life in academia has started much like my first attempts at driving a stick-shift, in fits and starts. I hope the smooth driving starts soon.

Now that I am starting this academic season of life, I look foward to sharing some of the wealth of knowledge. My first piece of wisdom is this. "Just do it. " Okay, I realize this is Nike's wisdom, but it's all I got. My first packet of writing is due August 5, one week from today. The packet is to include a 2-3 page critical essay (on something craft related), a book review (also 2-3 pages)...oh shit, I just realized as I am typing this out that it's 2-3 pages double spaced. I think i have 3-5 pages, single-spaced. oh, nothing like an overachiever...shoot. I guess I have some editing to do...Anyway, that's not all... and 30 pages of creative writing! Yikes! I can write 30 pages, but I cannot guarantee that it will be creative. I will have to turn in that same amount each month this semester. So, feel free to try and keep up (my writerly friends). I am paying about $7,000 this semester for someone to force me to do this much writing. Just think, you could do it FOR FREE!

Well, just thought I should update my blog. I was really getting tired of the "Proudly Serving Bologna" title on my last post. I thought it was cute when I wrote it, but now it's just embarrassing. Here's to hoping the Vermont photo makes my blog look a bit less piggy.

Proudly Serving Bologna

2010-06-04T02:20:00.000-07:00

The Bunganut Pig in Franklin has been largely overlooked by the nouveau riche of Franklin. It's a bit of an ol' boys joint. It certainly doesn't follow the new trends of serving "real food" from local farmers. They serve fried bologna wedges.

However, the in-laws are in town and we were on the hunt for local fried pickles. My fried pickle post has caused all kinds of non-organic cravings in my female readership, my mother-in-law not excluded. So, we decided to hit the Bunganut, and I was so happy we did.

Other than the order of fried pickles, which are some of my favorite classicly-fried pickles with straight-forward ranch dipping sauce, our lunch was highly enjoyable and healthy! We all order the special of the day: chicken salad stuffed tomotoes. The children enjoyed playing corn-hole while we awaited our food. A perfectly southern afternoon in Franklin, Tennessee.

Book of the Week

2010-05-16T19:36:00.000-07:00

Another Bullshit Night in Suck City

is a book on my creative non-fiction reading list for school. Of course, there are many books I can choose from, but this title practically screamed out to me. I've been in a funk this week. I've been an emotional one-man, three-ring circus...giddy one minute, raging another. Being a hormonal female is really getting old. Anyone? Anyone?

The other night, I got out of the house for a few stolen hours (to be honest, I think Dave actually kicked me out...or at least strongly but sweetly encouraged that I back away slowly from my family and go be alone). I grabbed this book off the shelf since the title pretty much defined my emotional state.

I'm half way in and am pretty hooked. It took a minute to understand the writer's voice, what he was going for, but now I'm really enjoying it. Nick Flynn writes about his absent father whom he finally meets in a homeless shelter that he (Nick) is working at. It's a great memoir of a boy/man and his relationship with his father. It's really his unique voice that makes this story a stand-out. His choppy, sentence fragments keep the story moving. His writing pops the reality of the homeless shelter in such a way that I actually smell the Bowery Mission I was at fifteen years ago.

Nick Flynn's writing is completely without bitterness or cynicism. He just tells it like it is/was. I feel a connection with him and want to know how his life turns out. How does he stay open to his father without being sucked into fear or losing his self? He writes:

Sometimes I'd see my father, walking past my building on his way to another nowhere. I could have given him a key, offered a piece of my floor. A futon. A bed. But I never did. If I let him inside I would become him, the line between us would blur, my own slow-motion car wreck would speed up.

I'm enjoying this book. But, mostly, like you might have guessed, I really just related to the title 'cause it's another bullshit night in suck city when you are living in this body of depleted serotonin.

Best Fried Pickles in Town

2010-05-14T08:21:00.000-07:00

Im on a hunt for the perfect fried pickles. My husband actually makes a pretty tasty fried pickle. I love dipping them in homemade crabby-ranch dressing (ranch dressing with Old Bay seasoning). My mouth is watering just thinking about them, and I even had some already today. Don't judge me, though, 'cause I had them at this new burger joint in 12th South, Burger Up, and I am pretty sure they were organic, grass-fed pickles.

Burger Up, on the corner of 12th Ave. South and Paris, is amazing! The use only local, organic meats and produce. The beef is from our very own Circle L Farm in Franklin (many of you know Bill Lee and his family). The bacon on my burger was from Benton Farms. This bacon is like world-renowned. It's pretty much the best bacon you will ever eat. I'm fairly certain Marche's serves only Benton bacon (am I wrong?). I know some brunch place in East Nashville uses it. The burger tasted amazing, what with the homemade ketchup and all. The only negative was that our burgers, which we ordered medium, ended up just being cooked to the point that a vet might have still been able to save it. (Thanks to Allison Osenga for that fabulous imagery). Of course, since the beef is practically sushi-grade, there were no fears of e-coli! I'd suggest ordering it well. The fries, served in a metal cup, were salted with sea salt, could also, not have been better. The only thing lacking was a 'special sauce', but I guess if you are making your own ketchup, what am I whining about?

But, this post isnt entitle Burger Up is it? No, its about finding the perfect fried pickles. These were de-lish! The batter was a delicate, perfectly-seasoned coating. The pickles were thinly sliced chips. The portion size was not exactly ample, but I suppose they are trying to keep me from having an ample bottom. (Isn't that a song...ample-bottomed jeans?) But, keeping a fit rear is not really the goal when ordering fried pickles, is it? They could be my favorite all time fried pickles, if there were more than twelve pickle slices on the plate. But, alas, they can't win if I am picking up the crumbs of the batter off the plate from hunger. Burger Up, I'd love to say yours are the best. So, would you consider adding more pickles? I mean, come on. How much does a pickle chip cost you?

Another place for good fried pickles is here in town on Main Street. The new restaurant, 55 South, serves southern cajun fare. The menu focuses on Louisiana inspired entrees like raw oysters, shrimp po-boys and red beans and rice. Being married to a cajun has ruined me for cajun food at restaurants. Unless we are eating at Cafe Benet in the French Quarter, nothing will live up to my mother-in-law's red beans and rice or Dave's dad's chicken gumbo. However, I can recommend the fried pickles at 55 South, except- and only except- you must order them with flour batter. Warning! Do not order the ones with cornmeal batter! They are like eating carpet covered pickles. Blah. You must specify the flour. The unique thing about 55's pickles is that they are served with fried jalepe nos, too. The dipping sauce is a nice tangy compliment, but nothing to write home about.

I will continue the hunt for the perfect pickles and keep you posted once I find them.

Guilt Gallery

2010-05-09T17:26:00.000-07:00

I feel guilty. About a bunch of things. First off, I haven't blogged this week even though I told myself that, no matter what, I needed to be more consistent with my writing. So, I decided I will chronicle my week of guilt, including the survivor's guilt I feel over not having any flood damage. Not only did I not get any flooding at our place, our plants are looking mighty hearty due to all the rain. Also, I was supposed to read this week. You'd think I'd be okay with the fact that I used my reading time helping my neighbors with flood clean-up, but, honestly, I did not do very much, at least not as much as my conscience seems to think. I'm feeling kinda guilty about that. I got a new vine for Mother's Day. I'm planting while others are still throwing out life-long treasures and memories from their garages, basements and first floors.

I took this picture on Monday, when the sun came out, the waters were already beginning to recede, and people began venturing out of their homes to assess the damage. The day of my last post (Saturday) the rain started and did not stop for two full days. It was torrential the entire time, too. The tornado sirens sounded throughout the night and it never occurred to me to worry about flooding. My neighbors, literally one block south of me, began evacuating their homes at two in the morning when they finally realized the waters weren't cresting anytime soon. The creek turned into a rapid-moving lake so quickly they had to abandoned their cars when they wouldn't start. Who knew my house was on one of the highest points in the Franklin city limits? SURVIVOR'S GUILT.

My kids had an art show at school this week. (Aren't they amazing artists?) Do I encourage them enough? Do I tell them how awesome they are? I doubt it. I nag them and tell them they whine too much. I also did not volunteer to help the other parents who put on the art show and ice cream social. Boo. PTA GUILT.

Look at these faces? How on earth can I rage against them ever? And yet I do. I have this week. Guilty! Guilty! Guilty! This is how I know I haven't lost my religion. I have to cry out to Jesus to deliver me and my children from my rottenness. I know that some of you hate this kind of talk. You'll want to soothe me and tell me I do an awesome job parenting, that Ellie and Atticus are blessed to have me as their mom. I do believe this...mostly because I believe it is God's plan for them and so who I am to dispute that...but that truth is not mutually exclusive from the truth that I am also a jerk to them. I accept both these truths fully. I just happen to be feeling the negative part more this week. MOTHER GUILT (perhaps the worst kind of guilt!)

I woke up this morning, Mother's Day, to my children fighting. Atticus was knocking on the door as Ellie was screaming that he wasn't allowed to wake me up. Atticus wanted to know if he could have a lollipop, at 8 am. Ellie wanted him to obey the sign posted to my door. It was a sweet gesture and valiant attempt at giving me extra sleep this morning. At breakfast I told my family a story about my friend's child who, when I asked to fill out a Mother's Day card in their kindergarten class, said her mom's favorite thing to do was to lie down and she was really great at sleeping. Thinking I would get a good laugh at my friends expense (oops, guilty), I was surprised when Atticus shouted after I finished the story, "Ahhh! I should have put that!" Double guilt. I'm a lazing mother. My mother never slept past 7! WORK ETHIC GUILT.

Ellie's Mother's Day card included a poem. She announced to me that her goal was to make me laugh. Apparently, I laugh more at Atticus then her. Her attempt was as follows:

I love you so,

my heart is quow.*

You're like a song in my heart,

You're like a fart,

ready to dart.

*quow is a made up word to force the rhyme.

Yes, I laughed. Sadly, I have encouraged my child to follow me in my path of potty-talk. She has stooped to using "fart" in a poem in order to please me. Ugh. It worked. Guilty as charged. DIRTY-MOUTHED MOMMY GUILT.

And now, to continue in reasons to feel guilty, I'll recommend a book that I just started it yesterday. I have only read one essay and I didn't really like it. It was about canoeing, the power of water and the force of current. It was a little too poetic for my taste, though very timely thematically. I am trying to slow my thoughts down to enjoy this type of literature, because I know it's supposed to be good. I might be too used to eating at Burger King to enjoy French cuisine, if you get my metaphor. I read just the other day on someone's facebook post that Natalie Merchant said a poet's job is to surround in silence that which needs to be paid attention to. (I just murdered that quote, and I kinda feel guilty about it, but I think you get the sentiment.) So, here you go: My guilty book of the week is Recollected Essays 1965-1980 by Wendell Berry. I also have posted a link to Hannah Coulter by Wendall Berry, because (although I haven't read this either), I have heard this is a phenomenal book. It's probably more of my speed, too. IMPOSTER GUILT.

My neighbor across the street, Thomas "Brah" McLemore, died today. He was an incredibly sweet man who never once neglected to greet me from his front porch, where he sat daily. I wonder quietly if he wished I would have stopped to talk to him more. I am sad that I may have missed out on knowing him better. He was the great-grandson of the original land owner of our neighborhood. Mr. McLemore was a sharecropper who bought the land from his original slave master. Thomas was so kind to me, even though I carry the guilt of my ancestors. WHITE GUILT.

This photo is of Thomas' great grandfather, Harvey McLemore. Ex-slave turned land-owner and namer of Hard Bargain.

The biggest guilt-whammy I feel at the end of this week is from this picture that Dave took at 6 am, Monday morning, of the cemetery in downtown Franklin. The photo is haunting and beautiful. As I look at it, I feel ashamed of my guilt. Why do I fret over these insignificant details? In light of the tragedy that my fellow Tennesseans have endured, in light of eternity. Death is sad, but peaceful. One day I will be without guilt. Worms maybe, but no guilt. NO GUILT.

You can click here to see the gallery of pictures from the Flood of 2010 (The photos look much clearer on his gallery). "They" are calling this the 500 year flood, as the chances of this happening again are one in five hundred years. Dave's photos will be available for purchase and proceeds will go to the Hard Bargain Flood Relief Fund. Email him for more information.

Juniper Tree Book of the Week

2010-05-01T10:31:00.000-07:00

Oh, I am so excited! I just got a package from Amazon with four books from my CNF (Creative Non-Fiction...learning the acronyms of my craft) reading list. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek by Annie Dillard, Memoirs by Pablo Neruda, News of a Kidnapping by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and Persian Girls by Nahid Rachlin. This is my homework! I'm sorry I can't do the dishes, I have homework to do. How much do I love grad school??

Since I have yet to read these books, I won't recommend them, but look for those titles to show up in the near future.

However, I am in the middle of reading a great memoir that I can recommend: All Over but the Shoutin' by Rick Bragg. Just after reading the prologue alone, I realized just how far I need to go in my writing. Every sentence he writes is art. Bragg's stories are his personal experiences, but the way he tells them is like an anthropological study on the poor in Alabama. I now know what it's like to be raised on a cotton farm in north Alabama by a momma who didn't buy herself a new dress for seventeen years because she used every dime she earned to help get her three boys through school.

"My grandmother, who fried me whole boneyards of chicken, who got midly drunk on her prescriptions, played "Boilin' Cabbage Down" on the banjo and stomped so hard on the planks so hard it sounded like Jehovah pounding at the door, was gone."

This book reminds me of why I love (and am haunted by) my southern heritage. Bragg writes,

This is not an important book. It is only the story of a strong woman, a tortured man and three sons who lived hemmed in by thin cotton and ragged history in notheastern Alabama, in a time when blacks and whites found reason to hate each other and a whole lot of people who could not stand themselves.

All Over but the Shoutin' is a beautifully written memoir about a tragic, but triumphant life lived out in the humid and dirty air of a small southern town.