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Repost: Composer of Character and Grace

To whom my girls affectionately called Paw-Paw, Happy Birthday! You would be 96 today. 

Original Post: 2016

Finding the words to describe a loved one that has passed and how profoundly they have affected my life is never easy. With each passing of a loved one, I reflect on how their lives were grandiose, vibrant, unique, meaningful and prevalent in their overflowing capacity of grace. A grace that was bestowed upon us with every greeting, farewell and the fulfilled, unforgotten moments in between.

Grandpa was no different.

Twenty years ago, Linda Ellis wrote a poem called The Dash. Since then, I would like to think most people spend more time reflecting on what separates our earthly birth from our heavenly one. That small line encapsulates every hill and valley and triumph and defeat. Few have composed such a magnificent life as Grandpa. If the dash was a badge of honor, he earned it. Undeniably. If it were a badge representing how many he served with an attitude of grace and how those people were affected by his high standards of character, then he earned it. Without question.

As for commitment to faith and family, Grandpa raised the bar. God and family were always, without hesitation, first. Just as importantly, it came easily. When church was in session, he'd be there. If there was a lesson to be learned, he'd teach it. When there was time to play ball with his grandsons, an opportunity to show off his fancy pitches – each one with the promise that it was unhittable – he would willingly take it.  If there was a sporting event, a birthday, or anything involving family, he was there. Usually right next to my dad. And usually with a small bag of jelly beans tucked away he'd later disperse as if tiny nuggets of gold.

Few have composed a magnificent life like Grandpa. He lived his dash with a contagious joy. Comforted by life around him, whether birds at the feeder or great-grandchildren climbing his walker, he enjoyed life like he lived it. To the fullest.

His most significant composition...well, it wouldn't take you long to figure it out. If you were peered in through the window during the holidays or one of the other numerous celebrations held beneath the rafters of their home, you would see his greatest love was family. From his wife and children all the way down to his great-grandchildren. We are his opus.

Grandpa took every note the Good Lord gave him and composed a symphonic masterpiece. We, the orchestra of instruments, each unique in style, shape and sound, play different notes with our own fanfare, but all playing for the same purpose. All playing variations of the same song he hummed and whistled into the fabric of our family. Each instrument, each note playing the tune of character and grace so we, like Grandpa, could do our best to epitomize the Great Conductor.

With our familial leaders only in our spiritual vision, our path looks and feels differently now. By walking together and carrying each other, we continue our journey with our backpacks filled with the tools and gifts given to us by their gracious hands. Grandma and Grandpa lived every day as if it were a beautiful day. Not once did they let one slip away - their fingers were too busy touching the lives of others. Their hands always working, helping when not folded in prayer.

I was at your home yesterday, and I was reminded of something. It’s not a house that makes a home, but rather the love that resides there.

I love and miss you,

Ryan

Pasta, a Clog and a Really Long Snake

I'm forcing myself to sit and write. Therefore, I preface this post by saying it won't be my best. After writing every day in March, I'm exhausted. The same thing happened last year, and I didn't write anything – other than birthday cards – until November's NaNoWriMo. That's too long of a break, and my dream of becoming a published writer won't happen by sitting idly by. Well, not idly by. I teach full-time, then yard work becomes my nine-to-five profession (or obsession) during the summer. Who needs a gym membership when you're lugging around buckets of rocks from one side of the yard to the other? Besides, it's a good time to flex for my wife, who spends her outdoor time floating in the pool. It's okay. She deserves it. 

 

We're blessed to have our home, and the more dirt I get under my fingernails (my garden gloves look more like glovelettes, a shout-out to all my Harley friends…which are currently zero), the more I give glory to my creator. 

 

I figured it may be a good time to write after having a one-hundred twenty-five-foot snake in my house this week. Don't get too excited (or frightened); that sucker cost me over three-hundred bucks. Yep, the plumbers were beckoned by a regurgitating garbage disposal. What? How did that happen? Oh, right. Pasta. Lots of pasta. But it wasn't the leftovers making the disposal spit up like a newborn. 

 

It was years of build-up. A slow clog taking over twenty years before it reached its limit. Part of being a writer, a big part, actually, is observing. It makes sense that my encounter with a snake in my house would get me thinking about how humans are no different than water pipes. The fact that the snake was on the brim of the sewer at one-hundred twenty-five feet is symbolic. One can't help to think of Shawshank Redemption because, like Andy, my pasta, along with a little bit of god-awful gook, made it safely to the other side. Who would've thought the price of freedom for sauce-stained noodles would be so steep?

 

So long, my tasty cylindrical friends. May the meatballs ever be in your favor.

 

With this experience, I reflected on circumstances preventing me from reaching my potential and my freedom from grease-induced clogs. Water always finds a way unless it's in a clogged pipe. Minus any perforations, the water sits there. Stagnant. Preventing anything good from coming along – redemption, salvation, joy. 

 

It's the human condition. We work hard all day, all week, with aspirations waiting in the shadows, anticipating the light needed for growth, and life gets in the way. Or, in my case, we let things build up, blockading our dreams and desires. The absence of healthy avenues to unchain the necessary light ultimately drains us. Actually, "drain" would be a good thing in this metaphor. How about depletes? Either way, it impedes the importance of positive outlets.

 

Which I do have. I've discovered new music and authors in the last few years and have my reading, writing, walking and yardwork. These help and should suffice, but I need more. These are solitary activities essential for the heart, mind and soul. 

I need more. 

 

I need a consistent small group (I miss you guys) and weekly softball games mixed in with some tennis and hiking. I wouldn't mind if my best friend moved to Virginia, either. But I don't have those now, which leads to a fundamental question: Do I do something about it, or do I become my own clog. The latter, let's admit, sounds gross. It goes without saying the former is the only choice. 

 

But how often are we the culprit of our own stuffed drainage pipe? How often do we find ourselves at the end of a hundred-foot pipe on the edge of the sewer when it all could've been prevented in the first place?

 

We are victims of complacency. At least, I am. I get too comfortable in my routines, too exhausted from daily demands, but there is a workaround. It only takes us prying ourselves from our realm of comfort. No big deal, right? If only. We don't want to get to the end of our lives (we never know when that is) and tell ourselves the ultimate lie: I didn't have time. Or worse, the ultimate utter of regret, I wish I…

 

Because we do have time. If there's time to binge-watch TV shows, then there is time. You could call a friend, join a group, or take the next necessary step in obeying the insistent and consistent voice within, reminding us we are meant for more. That voice doesn't lie. Truth is only distorted if we victimize ourselves, allowing uncontrollable forces to puncture our spirits.

 

I am the culprit for running after my dreams for so long and not having anything to show for it. I let circumstances such as finances, idiotic statements comparing ancient rocks to modern guns, lack of competent leadership and inflation get the best of me. And by that, I mean anger me. I wish I could take everything with a grain of salt. Instead, I them with a grain of sand, and then the wind blows it in my eyes and mouth. The grains of grit blind me, slow me down and ultimately drop me on the soggy ground of defeat. It's not easy picking yourself up, which is why we need those outlets. Those positive community connections. They are the forklifts when we need them most. More importantly, it gives us a chance to lift others up. Otherwise, we reach our boiling point. We bubble with anger, stress and frustration. This does no one any good. Only harm.

 

Perhaps this is why my life lacks strong, solid relationships with my daughters. I know it's normal when raising teens. At least some of it, but I fear the lack of healthy outlets has irreversibly damaged the one thing I want most in life.

 

While I continue sharpening my observation skills as a writer, I must do the same as a dad and husband. I need to seek out the windows of opportunity that will strengthen my relationships. Finding the window isn't enough. I need to get to the other side, but not by going around it. I must go through it. We all do. If they're anything like my windows at home, hard to open and impossible to close, then they you may need to throw a brick. Or use a hundred-twenty-five-foot snake. Be creative. Just get through. What's holding you back? A glob of potentially-pipe-clogging noodles? You're better than that. The voice within guarantees it.

-rg

 

Slice of Life: Day 31: Thank You!

 Fellow Slice of Lifers,

Congrats! No matter how many posts you made this month, at some point, you made yourself sit down and write. You deserve several scoops of ice cream with lots and lots of sprinkles. I am proud of you and am inspired by you. Thank you to those who visited my site. I appreciate all of the comments. I wish you a blessed and speedy rest of the school year and a relaxing summer. Enjoy the writing journey!

Dream Out Loud,

Ryan

Slice of Life: Day 30: Rules for Writing (and Life): 002

                                             

Anne Helmstadter's, The Story Immersion Project, is one of my many email subscriptions. Her post today mentions writer Malcolm Gladwell.  His name didn't ring a bell – I'm not good with names - but  I read his David and Goliath - a phenomenal book.

Gladwell has a list of 10 writing rules. In her post, Anne said they aren't only about writing but to live by as well.

Here are three more from his list (I'll save the others for future posts) with some of my thoughts:                                   

Learn Storytelling.

It's a no-brainer, but many elements must work together to tell a story properly. I don't know specifically what Gladwell had in mind when he stated this as a rule, but I assume it's character, setting, plot, point-of-view, style, theme and the use of literary devices (figurative language, humor, irony etc.).

I'll talk about one (for now):

Character: While earning my MA, I learned about the Proust Questionnaire. Honestly, I didn't like doing it, but that only reinforced it was a good idea. I didn't like it because it was new and slowed me down when all I wanted to do was jump into the storytelling. Sometimes we need to slow down to speed up. It often produces better results.

These thirty-five questions will help. It's essential to know all your characters inside and out – even if it's irrelevant to the story. It may help you determine how your character will react in situations. For example, one of the questions is What is your most marked characteristic? If your character is an adolescent, and has a big, red zit on their face may mean they stand on the outskirts of the school dance or choose to stay home.

Above all else, if the reader doesn't care about your main character, they won't care about the book, and you will lose a reader and gain negative word-of-mouth advertising.

Evolve with Time.

I'll begin with a quote from the man himself:

"I feel I change my mind all the time. And I sort of feel that's your responsibility as a person, as a human being – to constantly be updating your positions on as many things as possible. And if you don't contradict yourself on a regular basis, then you're not thinking."

That about says it all.

Make sense of criticism.

Dismiss criticism because you don't understand it, or it rubs you the wrong way, doesn't move you forward in your writing journey. I've said it before; you will only become the writer you want to be by accepting criticism. It is as important as building strong, relatable characters. Call it up. Invite it in. Make it dinner. Give it a long, passionate kiss goodnight.

Years ago, before I knew how to format a screenplay, I gave a script to a professor. I was excited to have someone read it and tell me how great it was. The former happened. The latter? Not so much. He completely trashed it and had nothing good to say about it. Truthfully, he was an utter jerk. Also, truthfully, he was right. It wasn't good enough. The story itself was and is very good. But he critiqued it the wrong way. Not because he was honest but because he was mean and unprofessional. There's always something good to say. Start with a positive. After that, your criticism should be fair, honest, transparent, helpful and tactful. I turned my back on screenwriting because of that. Thankfully, I returned to it and absolutely love it.

Avoid mean people - and friends and family. Family typically don't know anything about writing - hence my first firing as a ghostwriter - and will only say it's great because they love you. If we only seek out people that will fluff our ego, we're only hurting ourselves and hindering effective productivity.

Here's a link to the Proust Questionnaire:

https://www.vanityfair.com/magazine/2000/01/proust-questionnaire

Write On,

-rg

P.S. A little ego fluffing is good now and then. :) I'll admit the amazing comments I received this month have given me a boost of confidence. I'm very grateful.

 

Slice of Life: Day 29: Rules for Writing (and Life): 001

Anne Helmstadter's, The Story Immersion Project, is one of my many email subscriptions. Her post today mentions writer Malcolm Gladwell.  His name didn't ring a bell – I'm not good with names - but  I read his David and Goliath - a phenomenal book.

Gladwell has a list of 10 writing rules. In her post, Anne said they aren't only about writing but to live by as well.

Here are three from his list (I'll save the others for future posts) with some of my thoughts:

            Pursue your passion.

Whether your passion is writing, walking or doing yard work (They're mine!), carve time to do them. Spend time with people who encourage you but also keep you accountable. There's a reason you are passionate about certain things. It's a spiritual seed planted in your soul. You are meant to do it!

Understand passions don't always come easy. One of my passions is my family. Nothing is more important to me. It is not easy raising three teenagers, but I'm not giving up.

P.S. And there is nothing easy about writing a novel. I'm giving up on that, either.

Shift your thinking.

Oiy. This could be difficult no matter which side of the line you fall on politically. I will steer clear of that debacle and gear it toward writing.

One thing writers must, must, must do is have humility. I cannot express this enough. If you are unwilling to listen to (and often apply) someone's suggestions (especially if they are an experienced writer), you have already failed. Sorry but it's true. Whether writing or not, your goal should be to submit your best work. This will NOT happen if you aren't willing to heed the advice of others. Will their critiques be difficult to hear? Absolutely. Suck it up, Buttercup. I say that with love.

Focus on quality, not speed.

Speed is okay to stretch your writing muscles or defeat so-called writer's block. Recently I set a timer for three minutes and typed the entire time. Quality work? Nope. But it made me curious if it were a literary world I'd like to explore further. Perfection isn't a priority or the point in an exercise like this. Quality matters when you're writing a novel or short story. It takes time. As much as you love your first draft, it's not good enough. Not even close. Again, with love.

Until Next Time,

rg

 

 

Slice of Life: Day 28: Observation of the Senses

I HEAR conversations from the kitchen. Older daughter showing patience with youngest daughter as she instructs on how to handwash pots and pans – something that has been a struggle to get her (the youngest) to do. Now, arguing and fussing and smart mouth back-talk as I tell her not to worry about where her other sister is. Youngest sings Taylor Swift. Changing the lyrics? Not sure. Oldest is coughing. Seems like she’s been coughing for two years. Youngest has cooled her jets and, I hope, is finally finishing her simple task – yet, to her, I’m sure it feels torturous.

 

Well, I SEE, my computer screen in front of me, which is hot-to-the-touch with all the Slices of Life I’ve been doing. I’m excited to wrap up March and get back to my novels. My AirPods are to my left. I had them in after school when I immediately went out back to work in the yard. To my right is my guitar. I don’t have a case or a stand for it. I have had this for over twenty years and have played less than fifteen minutes. But that is going to change. I will not have it as another object in my office – although it does add a nice touch.

 

I TASTE meat from spaghetti sauce between my teeth. Food ALWAYS gets stuck in my teeth. But I floss every night. I had some macaroni salad after school, and while it was delicious, it lingers in my throat, which takes a couple of fierce back-of-the-tongue brushings to get rid of.

 

UPDATE on HEARING…my cat just walked into my office mewing - no doubt wanting my lap. Maybe she was a lap dancer in a previous life. She always wants a lap. Good grief.

 

I FEEL circulation cutting off from the way I’m sitting. My nine-month battle with plantar fasciitis continues. Maybe I’ll make an appointment over spring break. I don’t feel it yet, but my back will be sore in the morning after hauling several five-gallon buckets of rock. The tip of my index finger is swollen and sore. From pulling so many weeds? Who knows? Good thing I’m not a hypochondriac.

 

Hope I don’t wake up dead :/

 

HEARING UPDATE: My office is adjacent to the laundry room. With the fuss of after-dinner over, I can hear my latest load of wash circling in the dryer.

 

I SMELL body wash. I took a quick shower…why do I say “quick”? My showers are always quick. I spritzed some cologne on too. There was no need to do this, seeing that the rest of my evening (post Slice of Life) is watching TV with my wife. Creed is the name—a gift from a student.

 

I hope you all are well.

 

-rg

Slice of Life: Day 27: Obituary Reflection

kind soul; tender heart; undeniable love; selfless; kind; loving husband

These descriptions were used in a recent obituary of someone I didn’t know well. But I knew Justin well enough to know the impact of his loss would stretch far and wide. The ripples of his early passing reached me because he was the brother of my sister-in-law and the best friend of my brother in high school. My heart wept in their sorrow. But his loss impacted me in other ways.

While his family continues to adapt to a life without him, clinging to memories more than ever, I have not stopped thinking about his obituary.

It may sound strange to be affected by a summary of someone’s life, but those few paragraphs are our heart-created footprints no wind, rain or firestorm can remove or destroy. It’s the recognition and validation of the effort we put into our life. It shares who we are survived by and how people will remember us.

The qualities used to describe Justin have been on my heart and mind. For the last few days, I have asked myself if I would, upon my death, be described with such wonderful and inspiring attributes. I have my doubts. Justin’s loved ones have forced me to do some deep soul-searching. Justin and I had a love of Philly sports and U2 in common. And perhaps I could give him a run for his money for how much I love my family – but surely fall short when it came to acting out that love. But kind? Tender-hearted?Selfless? Loving husband? I can only hope. Well, I can hope and actually do a better job, but if my last breath was only moments away, I don’t see these affirmations being part of my life summary.

I often tell my wife I’m afraid of how my daughters will remember me. I worry they will only remember my imperfections. Will they ever understand how I constantly fear for their health and safety? Will they ever know I freak out over loud noises because the first burning image in my head is of them injured? Will they remember the times I apologized for my mistakes and overreactions? Will they understand my overreactions are deeply rooted in a love this writer could never adequately express? Will they ever know my heart breaks over their hurtful words? Will they appreciate our home, food on our plates, and warm beds are the product of hard work, commitment and dedication at a job that slowly takes everything out of you? Will they ever know how much I miss them even though we’re still together?

I could go on.

And since I didn't know Justin well, I don't know of his spiritual life or his connection with Christ. What I do know is that God's love goes well beyond our comprehension and He knows our hearts better than we do. Therefore, I know Justin is enjoying life on the right side of eternity.

Justin obviously lived a good life and is remembered for his love, and I will continue to reflect on how I want people to remember me. I can only say I have the rest of my life to live up to wonderful people like Justin. We all have the rest of our lives to be better people. How long will that be?

-rg

Slice of Life: Day 26: Short Story

This is a few paragraphs from a short story about a guy who never strays from his day-to-day routine. The portion below leads up to everything changing as he is thrust into an adventure of self-discovery and healing.

I sat on my bench and pulled out my lunch and my phone - the low buzz of conversation on all sides of me. All normal until it wasn’t. If he hadn’t been carrying what looked like a relic stolen from the history museum – I wouldn’t have noticed him. Nor would I have cared if he had kept on walking. He didn’t. Heading my way, the man, lugging something in both his hands, was going to run into the bench. Or worse.

 I scooted further to the center, but he sat anyway and removed his hat, which he lay between us, revealing a woven, netted bracelet with a single colorful bead on his wrist. A breeze blew his narrow white beard in my direction, fluttering like the kites above the pond. Then he proceeded, with his white-haired, wrinkled hands, to type on his mechanical typewriter with as much casual demeanor as I had pulled out my phone.

Something was off. 

His aura intrigued my senses. Age had ripened his face with sags and creases. The smell of old age wasn’t mothballs or musty cellar but of nostalgia turning my unsettling ping into child-like anticipation. As the breeze carried his breath towards me, I was reminded of quenched garden soil after mom used the garden hose.

For the first time in my one-path, hermit-style life, curiosity struck me. I wanted to initiate a conversation but had no idea how.

I think, Hi, there! I forge a canyon between home and work, work and the park, park back to work, and back home again. Only to do it all over again. My canyon runs deep and echoes with phone calls, meetings and the hustle and bustle in between. I am told what needs to be done, and I do it. The encapsulation of my day is as grooved as rumble strips is a bit much for an initial conversation.

No wonder everybody said the same thing every day. It’s too difficult to come up with something original.

I turned and faced the man, his beard signaling the wind direction and said the next thing that came to my mind. “See the game the last night?”

He didn’t respond but instead rolled a piece of paper in the machine and began pecking. Perhaps he was mute and was typing his answer. A bold stance against today’s technology?

...to be continued

-rs

Slice of Life: Day 25: Screenplay

This is part of a screenplay, a spinoff of the four-book series I've been working on for a very long time.

FADE IN:

 

 

EXT.  DEEP IN A FOREST – DAY

 

PIERCE DAGON, 75, wears worn sneakers, jeans, a jacket and a backpack draped over one shoulder. Straight, silver hair falls from under his ballcap as he stands impatiently, staring at the outer rim of a circular clearing where nothing grows. Pierce, who usually frequents the library at this time, waits for the one thing he tenaciously researches. The mysterious cabin.

 

Pierce looks at his arm and watches the hairs rise on his arm. 

 

MILES, 76, Pierce’s best friend, approaches, whistling, from a nearby path. A walking stick, like a pendulum, swings at his side as he tilts his fedora to block the rays of sun that light his path.

 

Miles pours an unsteady cup of coffee from his thermos and hands it to Pierce.

 

                               PIERCE

               You here for the same reason?

 

                               MILES

               No, I saw you head into the woods. I went 

home, grabbed my gear, and thought I’d try 

to catch up with you.

 

Miles looks across the circle as leaves blow across it but don’t touch the ground.

 

                               MILES (CONT’D)

               I had no idea this is why you came. It’s

               good to see this again. In a way.

 

Miles sees the tentpoles sticking out of Pierce’s backpack.

 

                               MILES (CONT’D)

               The third time you have a choice. You 

               planning to camp out until it happens?

 

                               PIERCE

               I need to go – and yes, I’m not going

               anywhere until it shows up and takes me.

 

MILES

               I had a feeling you’d say that. Have you

               thought this through?

 

PIERCE

               There’s nothing to think through.

               I need to find her.

 

                               MILES

               There’s something different, other than

               having a choice you need to be aware of.

 

Pierce continues to stare across the empty circle.

 

                               MILES (CONT’D)

               I’ve talked with other travelers. There

               are implications.

 

                               PIERCE

               Let’s hear it. But my mind is made up.

 

                               MILES

               There’s no guarantee you’ll return.

               Whatever world you go to could be your 

last. The thought of never seeing you 

again, well, I didn’t exactly wake up 

this morning preparing for that.

 

                               PIERCE

               What else?

 

                               MILES

               Not returning means no influence on 

               family, you’ve neglected. Speaking of 

which, have you-

 

                               PIERCE

               What else?

 

Miles turns and faces Pierce catching his eye.

 

                               MILES

               She may not be there. Noelle may not 

exist in your next world, and even if 

she does, you may never find her. If 

you do, it could take a lifetime. 

Hell, Pierce, you may only be there a 

year. We don’t ever know.

 

Miles blows on his cup before taking a sip of coffee.

 

                               MILES (CONT’D)

Your journeys were rare, being that you 

ended up in the same world both times. 

Believe me. 

               

PIERCE

When I left her, I was ripped away. 

Torn from her, our children. I need 

closure. If nothing else, I deserve 

that. I’ve tried living this life 

without her. Can’t do it.

 

               MILES

What about your son that’s here? A son 

that lives in your real world, but you 

know nothing about. And the only gift 

he ever received was abandonment.

 

               PIERCE

               I felt I was betraying them.

 

                               MILES

               Which makes the void of abandonment

deeper and darker. I just want to make 

sure you know what’s at risk.

 

                               PIERCE

               I do. Was there something else you 

wanted?

 

Miles stoops over, grabs some small sticks.

 

                               MILES

               How about one last campfire?

Slice of Life: Day 24: 3-Minute Free Write

I allowed myself to begin with an image before setting the timer. 117 words in 3 minutes. No edits except for spelling mistakes.

I'm kind of curious. 

I stepped out of the car, and the dust hadn’t even settled from my wheel’s disruption. It took hardly a second to see it was different. All of it. Everything in every direction that used to be there, symbols of childhood faded by decades of time and torment, had vanished. Tire tracks. That was it. From them. They burned the barn, the farmhouse and somehow sucked the creek dry. The why was easy to figure out. It was the how. How did they manage to come, destroy and depart in a short amount of time? Or were they here? Watching. I didn’t know if it was safe to be here. At this point, I didn’t care.

Give it a try! :)

With exercises like these, I automatically put my fiction writing into gear. Even with barely a hundred words, there may be one sentence, phrase or even a single word that inspires a short story. Maybe it'd be related to the obvious War of the Worlds/post-apocalyptic vibe. Maybe not. I like the imagery of sucking the creek dry and leaving nothing behind except history rising up in smoke.  

But I think this exercise can be therapeutic as well. By giving yourself a time limit, your soul is going to pour out (or at least begin to unearth) the troubles weighing you down. Think about if a therapist charged by the minute, and you only had enough spare change to pay for the first one hundred twenty seconds. You'd skip the pleasantries and get right to heart of why you're there.

Whether we're cognizant of it or not (maybe we're too aware), we wear facades. Our day-to-day masks hide emotions, troubles and irritants. It makes sense and it's social etiquette. I'm not going to stand in front of my third-graders and complain about gas prices, marital strife or how the administration continues to bully people. And it's not the time to shout how dumb it is not to shop at Target anymore. But we're all cracking beneath the surface. We're human and things affect us. Sometimes we aren't aware of what those things are.

When I wrote this, our family farm had recently been sold. And while memories can't be sold, it certainly felt like they were stripped away, boxed up and shelved in some far-off dusty corner. Writing reveals.

Taking three minutes out of your day may reveal surprising elements of your life. While it won't reveal and heal in one fell swoop, it will get you started. 

The next step is easy. Loads of courage. No problem, right?

-rg

Slice of Life: Day 23: Memoir Bullets: 003

Just when I think I have recorded every event fortifying my trajectory of becoming a writer, I think of something else. I should have thought about it earlier because it has future writer scribbled all over it. Well, not really.

I try not to think about anything on my way home from work – a thirty-one-light commute. Thank goodness for audiobooks (currently The Bird Box) and new U2! But March’s Slice of Life always has me thinking about my post for the day. I will be honest; I’m looking forward to April. I’m exhausted. But love the challenge – don’t get me wrong.

Since childhood, I have always appreciated the poetic pulchritude (I never used that word before) in the before and after. The transformation from beginning to end. Growing up, my younger brothers had the same propensity as me for keeping their bedrooms an utter disaster, making a rooftop-ripping tornado look like sticking your head out of a moving car. 

My mom used to call in reinforcements, dragging my poor Aunt Cathy into the mess to help clean. As the greatest older brother ever, I helped my brothers, but we made it fun. We would, using a dolly, lug my dad’s VHS video camera upstairs and make a movie. We had Will Smith and D.J. Jazzy Jeff’s Nightmare on My Street playing in the background for one. Our film, while noticeably absent from AFI’s Top 100, is a classic as far as home videos are concerned. The best part was seeing the mess transition into pristine cleanliness.

It didn’t last long.

In summers during my college years, I pressure-washed and stained decks. I stained a deck with my boss on my first day of work, and I remember telling him how I look for the poetry in things – such as the after when staining a deck. Every stroke of the cedarwood stain was beautiful. 

What does this have to do with writing? Storytelling?

Picture an off-balanced boxer. No trainer and forced to fight in low-lit unofficial rings for a measly forty bucks only to go home to a dilapidated apartment. Now picture him going toe-to-toe with the heavyweight champion of the world…and winning. Can you see him holding his belt high over his head? 

Picture a weak, lanky kid from New Jersey entering his new neighborhood and school in California. Picture the bully-induced nosebleeds and the splotchy purple bruises coloring his face. Next, well, after some unorthodox training, a crane kick to the face makes him the All-Valley Champ.

Picture a farm boy. Unappreciated with dreams and aspirations, he is stuck doing chores for his uncle. Fast forward a little, and that farm boy becomes a Jedi Knight.

Stories, specifically screenplays, need an opening image opposite of the closing image on the final pages. Characters need to change throughout the story. A reader wants to invest in the character but must have a reason.

When writing, you must establish a character’s want and need. Without this, the protagonist has no point. Therefore, the reader/audience has no reason to keep reading or watching.

A want can be a job, a treasure, a relationship or a championship. A need is emotional – self-acceptance, pride or love. These often help attain the want. If your story is done right, the before and after of your character will be memorable.

I find validation in all of this. I’m usually embarrassed by my quirky thoughts. Little did I know finding the beauty in the end result would help me become a better writer.

-rg

 

 

 

Slice of Life: Day 22: The Miraculous Journey

I had something else in mind to write today, but my 3^rd graders changed my mind. This is a good thing because this isn’t going to be a rant about how often I repeat myself or must add the custodian hat to all the other hats we teachers wear daily.

 

Today, I finished the remarkable story, The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane, by the brilliant Kate DiCamillo. After reading the last line, my students erupted with applause – not at my reading skills, but for the story that never wavers from greatness. 

 

Their clapping made me realize I picked the right book, but also, they got it. At eight and nine years old, they appreciated the magnitude of Edward never wanting to be loved, to learning to love to opening his heart again after a series of heartbreaks. 

 

Yes, I coached them and stopped several times for class discussion, but they got more out of it this way. Only three of my teachers read to me my entire school career, and they never once stopped to discuss. Shameful. I shared this sad fact with my class and how I vividly remember those stories - The Indian in the Cupboard, The Wrinkle in Time and Where the Red Fern Grows. 

 

There are many stopping points as students learn traits such as selfishness, self-centeredness, arrogance, vanity, and empathy. Edward’s character arc is spot-on perfection, and I enjoyed discussing how he changes along the way. I have been telling them all year that a good story must have conflict but must also show how the character is different at the end from the beginning. 

 

Our last discussion was how Edward, as he sat on a store shelf, convinced himself he would never open his heart again. We took a vote to see if they agreed with Edward’s decision or if, by closing his heart, he was missing out on opportunities to feel joy and happiness.

 

When speaking to my class after I finished DiCamillo’s masterpiece, I said I hope they remember the books I read to them. I said hearing those stories is a big reason I became a writer. 

 

We can only hope.

 

My kiddos had library today (after I finished the book), and when I picked them up, I was elated to see every single copy of Edward Tulane checked out and clutched with excitement in their hands. They were so happy to show me. 

 

Thank you, Kate DiCamillo!

 

-rg