Rusty Wheels Turning

Hi everyone-

Quick update to everyone before I get to the good stuff. Ellie Grace is here and already 6 weeks old! I can't believe it- time is is already going by far too quickly! Anyhow, she is adorable, just like her Daddy. I'm back at work (booooo!), and Dom is officially halfway through his work at AIM. This time next year, he'll be done and I'll be that much closer to getting to be a stay-at-home Mommy.

Ok, now that we're all caught up, I have to let you guys know about an idea I've had for a film manuscript. Its going to be a post-modern dystopia sort of deal...an attempt at a genre (or two) that I hadn't heard of until recently. It's called "cyberpunk," and for some reason, it intrigues me. I don't know much about other works done in this particular genre, but I'm going to be doing some research. Meanwhile, I'm going to start piecing my storyline together on Final Draft. Hopefully, when we get back to meetings, I'll have a good bit to share!

If any of you have had any dabbling in the cyberpunk genre at all, please feel free to share with me what you know. I'm really excited about this, and I'd love to hear what you know!

Love to all-
Marion

Think a While on Paradox - bad poetry by aiken

Hold fast to dreams for if dreams die, life is a broken winged bird that cannot fly.
~ Langston Hughes

Don't part with your illusions. When they are gone, you may still exist, but you have ceased to live.
~ Mark Twain

The best dreams we have may never, ever come true;
that doesn't mean that some good can't be found in them or come of them.
~ The Troll Witch

I never floated down the Mississippi;
I never got to New England;
I never found true love.

I'll never really have a bar
or a shop or an easy old age
I'll work 'til I'm senile
or drop dead on the spot.

But the dreams that did come true
weren't all that great . . .
I wanted what I was taught I should want:
husband, home, family.
When these became real,
all the beauty and sweetness was gone
and I was alone.

Now . . .

I can be practical--and survive,
Lose hope and optimism,
Grow old in spirit, worn and beaten

taught by life
Or I can dream--and laugh like Sisphysus,
Dare the possibility of happiness.

I choose Twain and Hughes' advice,
With a touch of Emily Dickinson:
"I dwell in possibilities"

And still believe that sometimes
the best dreams, though not real,
Are better than any reality
anyone could imagine.

On Flip-Flops, Weddings, and Merry-go-Rounds--Reflective Essay by Aiken

I WISH I could write fiction!! I would love to turn the reflective essay that follows into a short story, but I'm afraid it would be HORRIBLE. I agree with Anna Quindlan that people tend to read & remember fiction and the ideas that fiction authors present longer, to ponder them. I can see the same things some authors do . . . I'm just not sure I can present them as works of fiction. So . . . until I craft a decent story, here's my reflective essay that begged to be written today.


The subject of weddings—and the bridal accoutrements came up recently in conversation with a friend. She described the footwear worn by bridesmaids at a recent wedding attended by her mother. Neither she nor her mother was impressed, for the women of the wedding party had all worn flip-flops. My friend did not smile; her brow furrowed slightly; her mouth formed a straight line. Surely I must agree, else she would not have shared her view. Ummmm.

You know . . . I kind of think flip-flops are fine for a summer wedding. I knew one bride who wore fuzzy white flip-flops so she wouldn’t appear taller than the groom. Perhaps they don’t go with a formal dress, but then, none of the females in the either processional or recessional had fear of falling. Perhaps they were nervous; in a serious ceremony, in a locally famous chapel perhaps wearing flip-flop was a fun, silly way to take the edge of the tension. No doubt they had their toes “done.” That would have made a unique photo-op and give the bride and her “maids” something to smile about in years to come—whether the marriage lasts or not. I can think of many reasons the flip-flops could be appropriate.

As for the bride and groom’s reception, they planned to stay up and party until they left on their honeymoon—why not? No doubt they have had a connubial relationship that has culminated in their wedding—that seems the going trend these days (not a bad way to reduce the number of future divorces, one hopes). More often these days the honeymoon is just a vacation that gives the newlyweds an opportunity to enjoy the glorious, hedonistic release of hormones. Not only that, but many newlyweds find themselves so happy and excited after becoming “Mr. and Mrs.” that it’s impossible for them to be calm at a decorous and formal reception, followed by an equally ceremonious escape. Why not stay up, celebrate with family and friends, and leave later for their happily ever after?

The choices of the couple at the wedding I attended Saturday were much more in line with tradition, and I have never seen a bride wear a dress more beautiful, that was more perfectly suited to her slender frame. Colors and trends being what they are, the bridesmaids wore brown gowns, that flattered each of them; they wore modest, heeled sandals, appropriate and dressy. The music during the ceremony was a pleasant blend. The song “I Loved Her First” that was sung by a would-be Garth Brooks as the bride stood between her father and the groom, brought tears to many eyes—not just my own. The best thing, though, was the look on the faces of bride and groom. Her eyes were on the man she loved the moment the back doors opened and she walked down the aisle, and his were on her.

In the aftermath, who can say which couple will be happier? Weddings are one-day wonders that take months to plan, sometimes cost a ridiculous amount, can be exhausting, and, for better or worse, change two lives forever. It is the way of our society; it is the yin-yang that pretends to assure stability to procreation and proliferation of the human species, and some marriages I’ve seen really and truly do end “happily ever after.” So do flip-flops, parties, and tradition matter as much as the rest of their lives? The point in life is to live, to take a chance, to grab the gold ring while it’s offered. The carousel doesn’t go on forever.

A Feel Good Quickie! - post from Aiken

The link below should take you to Writer's Digest's 101 Best Websites for Writers. There may be a pop-up, asking you to subscribe, but you don't have to! This year's list of websites is also neatly categorized, if you're looking for something in particular. Hope you find something useful or enjoyable.

Here's the link:
http://writersdigest.com/article/101-websites-2009?p_PageAlias=101BestSites

By the way . . . in case any of you are wondering, we ARE still meeting this Sunday -- 3 PM.

See you then!

Basics - Post from Aiken

Here's something that I think will help all of us, whether we read or write.

1. DO post--at least once a week, if you can, even if it's just to say, "Hey, nothing came to me this week or today." Even if you don't post, if you come here, read a bit, and begin THINKING, you may decide to post or write in a notebook or on a different blog or type away on your word processor or find some of your old stuff that you kept. Just reading and knowing other people are writing is one of the greatest ways to "prime the pump" for me. I find it very inspirational & begin to feel I need to do something. It's a great intellectual stimulant. So . . . for the sake of my 3-second, goldfish memory and to help me stave off Alzheimer's, please . . . post.

2. If you don't post, just leave a comment. If you don't want to leave a serious comment, if you could just let us know that you read, we'd appreciate it. "Kilroy was here" will work just fine.

3. WRITERS: At the beginning of the post, if you would tell us what it is we're reading--whether it's a short story start or a potential chapter or just a random writing, it would help us in our mindset when we read. We could provide better feedback, I think.

4. WRITERS: If there is an element of the work you want us to pay particular attention to, please tell us. If you're having trouble phrasing or want to know if something is effective or if an element is working . . . ask. Then we'll know what it is we're supposed to pay attention to.

I am DELIGHTED to read your works here! Keep in mind what my day-to-day reading consists of and you surely know why I prefer your, mine and ours.

I hope to be sending you a couple of interesting links in this up-coming week, and hope to be reading more of everyone's work. And, oh, yeah, I'll (gulp!) post mine as well.

In the meantime . . . may your ink cartridges flow clearly and never smear; may the muse of imagination spring when you're awake, and may you find a shady spot to sip some southern sweet tea.

Family Functions (Working Title) -Marion Pearson

--A little about my piece: This bit started out as an assignment in my scriptwriting class during my senior year in college. As one of our first assignments, we were simply asked to write a dialogue. I was absolutely delighted when our professor took them up, and then re-distributed them to have them read aloud by our classmates. Hearing my piece read as a script was so exciting! To this day, I still can't decide whether I like this better as a dialogue or as a short story, but I thought I'd give it a shot both ways. (I might bring it in as a script to the next meeting.) Anyway: the story focuses on a pair of siblings, Karen and Jase. Having begun their lives in the lower middle-class, they were thrust into an upper-class society when their mother left their father. The two were always very close to one another, shared many likes and dislikes, and looked out for one another. However, their close bond began to crack when their family broke up and, over time, all but disappeared. At the opening of the story, Jase has come to tell his sister of the death of their mother. He doesn't really know what to expect from her- but he certainly doesn't expect what he finds.

Any and all comments are welcome. As I said, this started as a script and has been adapted to a short story, so it's in raw form. I have quite a few ideas as to where to take it, but until I can decide whether I like it better as a short story or a screen-play, I will probably just keep playing with it. So, grab your red pens and your commentator hats and lay it on me! Enjoy!--


Jase made his way up the old, dilapidated stairs leading to what he assumed was still his sister's apartment. It had been nearly three months since he'd heard from Karen, and even longer since he'd seen her. Last time they had gotten together for coffee, she was acting strangely- distant almost. Jase had chalked it up to the alcohol on her breath and the hangover she appeared to be dealing with; but after a month of not hearing from her, he had started to fear the worst; especially when he tried to call and got no answer.
The apartment building that Karen MacNeil occupied was in one of the most notoriously violent neighborhoods in Jackson. Jase suspected that she was one of the very few white people that lived there. He held his breath every time the evening news flashed a story about a shooting or a robbery in her complex. Of course, she was never involved, but Jase was still protective of his younger sister as he had always been.
He finally reached the top of the stairs. The aged, wooden door directly across from the stairway had a "6" loosely nailed to it. Years before Karen had moved in, some smart ass had used a marker to scribble a "9" beside it. With heaviness in the pit of his stomach, Jase raised a fist to knock on the door. The moment his knuckles made contact with the wood, the door creaked open. Startled, Jase quickly jerked his hand away, expecting to see Karen standing in the frame. There was no one there. He waited a moment, then pushed the door open a little wider.
"Karen? Are you here?" He was answered with silence. Stepping inside, Jase was immediately hit with the strong stench of cigarette smoke, intermingled with something more herbal. The blinds on the windows were half opened, and the bright afternoon sun blazed into the dark, empty apartment. Squinting, Jase could see the junk spread all over the floor of what was, most likely, supposed to be the living room. There were clothes haphazardly strewn throughout the floor, empty cans and bottles here and there, and a stack of pizza boxes beside a ratty easy chair that probably served as a coffee table. Jase walked further in and through to the bedroom. Peeking around the door frame, he glanced at the bed; also piled with clothes. The paint was peeling off the walls, and there were sketches taped and nailed to the drywall. Karen had always had a talent for drawing, and had wanted to go into fashion design at one point. These drawings were different, though. They were angry, sad, and violent- nothing like he was used to from her. He called her name again, thinking that she might be asleep and buried under three years worth of laundry, but heard no reply. Looking at his watch, he still had two hours before he absolutely had to be home, so he turned and waded back into the living room. He pushed some old newspapers and paper plates out of the way; just enough to sit down on the couch that he was pretty sure came from the reject pile at the Salvation Army. There was no remote control in sight, so he just watched out the window for a while. Finally, he heard the old door open again. Turning, he saw Karen standing in the doorway. Besides the dark circles under her eyes, she looked as if she were wearing clothes that were two days old; and even from the door he could smell alcohol. She noticed him, but didn't seem very coherent.
"What are you doing here?" She mumbled, dropping a battered duffle bag to the floor beside the door.
"Glad to see you check your phone messages. I called you yesterday to tell you I was coming." He stood and kicked a beer can out of his path. "Love what you've done with the place. It has a real post-Hurricane Katrina motif to it."
Karen grumbled and walked toward the kitchen without even looking at him. "If you don't like it, you obviously know where the door is." She yanked open the refrigerator door and took out a bottle of beer. Jase shook his head and watched as she shuffled back toward the living room and plopped down on the easy chair.
"Nope, sorry; not this time. You didn't come home for Christmas, and no one has really heard from you since Grandma Gigi's birthday party. We were all just wondering if you were still alive."
"Oh, I see," Karen said, her tone taking a sharp sarcasm, "Mama sent you to come and check on the delinquent so you could report back to the dames of the Thorncrest Driving Club, right? Was she sober enough to remember my name, or did she put down her gin long enough to mumble, 'Go find out what that horrible girl is doing.'"
Jase looked away and replied quietly. "I came on my own, Karen."
"Well, thanks, I guess. But why bother? Your car has probably been chopped and sold by now."
"Karen, Mama died last night."
Karen didn't look up for a moment, and then took a deep breath and a long swallow of her beer. "Well, I'm awful sorry to hear about your Mother, Jase. I'm sure she'll be greatly missed; especially by the Jack Daniels distillery."
Jase was becoming increasingly annoyed by this point. "Damnit, Karen, she's your mother too. I know you are furious with her for leaving Dad, but did you ever stop to think that maybe she was happier?"
Karen's eyes narrowed as she whipped her head around to face him. "Yeah, I did, Jase. I thought about it a lot; especially when she would come home three sheets to the wind from one of those dinner parties and proceed to tell me I was too homely to be a debutante, or that I should try to lose weight and then maybe I'd find a nice boyfriend. She was really happy in her new lifestyle. Apparently, I just didn't fit in."
"Bullshit, Karen, " Jase retorted, "You never tried." He sat back down on the couch and laced his fingers together. "Look. I don't want to have this argument now. I just came to let you know that the funeral is going to be in Simmonstown tomorrow. It would be nice if you were there." He stood up and started toward the door, but stopped and turned to face the back of Karen's head. "Kay, are you alright?"
She didn't turn around. "Fine."
"I didn't mean about Mama. You look like hell. How's your job at the mall?" Jase watched as the bottom of her beer bottle rose over the top of her head.
"Lost it."
"What? When? How are you surviving?"
"I'm making it."
Jase looked arund and picked up a picture of himself with Karen when they were kids that was sitting on top of a metal popcorn container. "Have you looked for any other jobs?"
Karen tossed the beer bottle in the general direction of the kitchen. Sighing, she stood and turned to her brother. "Look, I told you, I'm ok. I'm working for a friend of mine. Drop it."
"Alright, whatever, Karen." Jase put the picture back in its precarious place. As he took his hand away, his class ring hit the edge of the frame and the popcorn container toppled to the floor. The top of the container rolled away, and 25 or 30 little plastic bags with some powdery substance spilled onto the floor. Jase bent down and took one in his hand, slowly looking up at his sister. "Karen, what the hell is this?" Again, she didn't respond; she just stared out the window. Jase dropped the baggie and walked over to the window, grabbing her arm and pulling her toward him. "Don't tell me you're selling this. You are, aren't you? Jesus, Karen, are you kidding me? You're probably using too."
Karen jerked her arm away from him and took a step back. "Hey, screw off, Jase. You make your money your way, and I'll do it mine. We can't all be lawyers."
"Yeah, well you could have been. You used to have the brains for that kind of thing." His voice was getting louder and angrier.
"What do you mean I 'used to?'"
"You obviously don't have shit for brains, or you wouldn't be into this mess." He ran a hand over his closely cut hair. "I can't believe you. I mean, you were always smarter than this." He tried to look into her eyes. "When did we grow apart?"
Karen rolled her eyes. "Don't try to guilt me, Jase. You sold out. When Mama left our Dad, you went right along with her. You forgot about Daddy, went right to that rich school and studied to be a lawyer, married the daughter of your senior partner, and bam, you became the apple of Mama's diamond-sparkled eyes. You didn't give a damn tht she left Dad with nothing. You didn't care." Tears began to form in the corners of her eyes. "I was the only one that cared. Daddy gave us everything we needed, but just because he wasn't rich enough for Mama, he wasn't worth your time or hers. Then that Wall Street Maverick walked in and wagged enough money in Mama's face that she left my Daddy. We got shipped off to that boarding school and two years later, Daddy put his brains all over a Wal-Mart bathroom stall. So don't act like you don't know why we grew apart."
Jase looked at her for a moment, almost too stunned to say anything. "You never forgave her for anything, did you?"
"Hell no!" Karen shot back. "Why should I? I was never good enough for her. My dreams were never enough, and she killed my Daddy. She can burn in Hell for all I care."
The last words were icy, and cut deeply into Jase. "You don't mean that. Mama loved you. She worried about you."
"Oh, real worried. So worried that she never once picked up the phone to call or come visit me. No, that might ruin her image with the Women's League." Karen turned away from him and folded her arms in front of her. "Don't feed me this sentimental crap, Jase. I can see straight through it."
"Fine. I really didn't come here to fight." He couldn't argue with her anymore- his voice was shaky and his heart was cracking. "I want you to come home, Karen. We're all at the house and the family wants to see you."
"I bet they do." She replied as she sat on the arm of the couch and reached for a pack of cigarettes. "Everyone needs an ego boost, so lets bring in the failure so we'll all feel better about ourselves."
Shaking his head, Jase took a step closer to her. "No, Karen. Everyone needs to know that you're alright. We just lost Mama, and we want to know that everyone else is ok." He reached out and put a hand on her shoulder. "Karen, I need you. I need my little sister. I agree that Mama did a lot of hurtful things, but now she's gone. I want to make things right. Please come home with me."
She stayed quiet for a few moments, then took a long drag from her cigarette and looked at the floor. After letting out a thin stream of smoke, she ashed the cigarette into the couch cushions. "How's Allyson?"
"Hm? Oh, she's alright. Great, actually. She's pregnant. We're having a little girl," he replied, half-smiing and shoving his hands into his pockets.
Despite the dim haze, Karen's eyes brightened a little. "Hey, that's great, Jase. You're going to be a Dad."
"Yeah, it's in two months. Guess I better get back to painting that nursery." He turned and took a few steps, reaching for the doorknob. Karen watched him for a moment, taking one more drag from the cigarette and then burying it into a nearby ash tray. "Jase, wait." He glanced back over his shoulder. "Maybe I could come by some time and help you with that."
Jase nodded, almost smiling. "I'd like that."

Thank You, H.L. Mencken - Aiken

Nothing unites southerners more than a cause, and if it involves someone not of the south, so much the better. Mencken had no way of knowing southern character when he wrote that the South was "almost as sterile, artistically, intellectually, culturally, as the Sahara Desert." Futhermore, according to the uncpress.unc.edu, Mencken believed that most "southern poetry and prose was drivel."

One must surely chuckle over such accusations that came on the eve of the Southern Renaissance which involved such notables as Flannery O'Connor, Eudora Welty, Robert Penn Warren, and, oh, yeah . . . that Nobel prize winning fellow . . . William Faulkner. Much like the listener that Faulkner's Quentin Compson spoke to in Absalom, Absalom, Mencken, and many others, may never be able to comprehend what it means to be southern or why "place" and heritage is alive and vitally important to southerners, nor why we don't give up our "village idiots" without knowing just where they've gone. "Do you remember . . ." and "What ever happened to . . ." are often the beginning of conversations that lead to territories more tangled and convoluted than Huck Finn ever explored. But the answers to those questions are important, for the South and its people are bound together by the past. That's really what Faulkner was trying to say in all those stories and books. We never really let go of the past because it still has a bearing on our present, even in the 21st century, even when we are close to losing our identity, close to becoming homogenized by cable television, asphalt, and Wal-Mart.

Who we are and the stories, poems and essays we write still speak of what "being southern" means. We are influenced by Steinbeck, Whitman, Shakespeare, Tennyson, Cormac McCarthy, Proust, Nabaknov, and Poe, who was himself a southerner. We write of imaginary worlds, fantasy, school buses, justice gone awry, alternative histories, and losing conflicts with computers. But don't think for one moment that our allegiance to the South is forgotten; it permeates our attitude in all that we write. We create microcosms and people them easily, because we have known characters all our lives. We learned our sense of place by osmosis, along with our concept of honor, and we infuse that into the writing we produce.

William Faulkner said: "I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance. The poet's, the writer's, duty is to write about these things. It is his privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past. The poet's voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail."

We are not the giants of southern literature who rose in the mid-twentieth century. We are only a group of Small Town Southern Writers, whose voices rise to maintain our identity and our humanity, and we welcome you to our blog, to "our place."