A Writer's Retreat

For the love of dog

2009-06-02T18:15:00.000-07:00

We had to put Buddy to rest today--he was getting sicker and didn't want to eat much anymore. Sure, he ate the steak we fed him last night, but otherwise hadn't been interested in the usual kibble for a few days. We could have given him more pills to help with the pain, but I think that it would have been torturous for us to keep him going just for our sakes.

I haven't posted in a while because the story I've been posting has a basset hound as one of the main characters--I wrote the story years ago, but because of the subject matter (the dog dies--OK, I killed the plot here), I haven't been able to keep on editing it.

I guess I'd been living in denial, but tonight I'm forced to face the facts: Buddy was a great dog with whom we had some great times--we went to the summit of Mt. Evans with him, traveled across several dozen states with him, and thoroughly enjoyed walking with him along the Greenway here in Grand Forks.

Last night, Emerson, Craig and I took him for a walk--I snapped a few black-n-white images of Emerson walking him (she threw a fit and insisted that she walk him). It was a lot of fun, and one of my former co-workers from the Herald drove past us and commented on how the scene was "just gorgeous".

I'm feeling terrible about having to be responsible and make such a "humane" decision, but I know that I couldn't bear to see him struggle to breathe anymore (he'd been doing this for the past few days). I'll miss him.

When I have the gumption, I'll post some more...

Part 2

2009-05-25T09:57:00.000-07:00

The department store was busy with people. Jillian found her way to the juniors’ section—dodging a few little old ladies and a mother with a small child. She hit the clearance section first, and realizing that the remaining deals were ugly enough for society’s outcasts, she headed for the dress section.

“Something sexy,” she whispered as she fingered leather and cashmere. When she found a cute little skirt with a matching top, she headed for the checkout, whispering to herself, “This better fit—I don’t have the time to try it on!”

James pulled into Ithaca and headed toward the nearest floral shop. “Tootsie, it may be my birthday, but I can’t imagine not bringing her flowers.” As he pulled into the small parking lot he noted, “I sure hope you don’t mind the wait.”

Tootsie grumbled and began to lick her paws. James hopped out of the car, entered the shop, and found the nearest sales clerk. She was busying herself by dusting off one of the floral cases. “Excuse me, I need two dozen roses—with a nice vase.”

“Red?” The lady turned to face him.

“Sure—or some combination—whatever you’d think she’d like.”

“Is she your wife?” The lady smiled.

“Girlfriend—but hopefully, after tonight, fiancée.”

“Then you’d better get her red.”

When James pulled into Jillian’s parking lot outside her apartment, he noticed that her car wasn’t there. “I wonder where she ran off to.” He let Tootsie out of the car, and she ran over to the dumpster and sniffed a dirty diaper on the ground nearby. Just as James was unloading his suitcase and bags, Jillian pulled up.

Recognizing the car, Tootsie ran over to greet her. “Well hello, Tootsie! Enjoy the drive?” Jillian rubbed behind her long ears, and she plopped down on the pavement, rolled onto her back, expecting a belly rub.

James slammed the trunk shut and walked over to her car, smiling. “I think she’s had it with me—I’m afraid the drive was a long one for her.”

“Not longer than usual—I hope.”

“No, but since my car’s been in the shop, Dave was nice enough to lend me his.”

“Oh, so that’s Dave’s car—”

“Yeah—it’s a real junker. It doesn’t even have heat. I nearly froze on the way up here.”

Taking some of his bags, Jillian asked, “Why don’t you move up here? The drive is so long.”

“I’d love to, but where can I find a job around here?”

Jillian nodded and looked at the pavement. “Well, Happy Birthday.” She looked up and smiled—hiding her slight disappointment.

“Thanks.” James reached into the front seat of the old car and grabbed the roses. “Here, these are for you.”

“Flowers? How sweet! But it’s your birthday—really, you didn’t have to!” She smiled and hugged him firmly. He smells like clove and soap, she thought. “Come inside—let me show you what I bought.”

James and Tootsie followed her up the stairs to her apartment, which smelled wonderful. The shrimp fettuccini casserole and the bread baking in the bread machine, filled the apartment with its inviting aroma. Jillian led James over to the kitchen table where there was a large wrapped box.

“You really didn’t have to—”

“Shut up and open it!” She smiled, and James ran his fingers through her long red hair. He opened the box, carefully tearing at the overtly masculine wrapping. Pushing tissue paper aside, he found a rust-red hand-knit wool sweater.

“Wow—thank you. I love it.”

“Thanks. I made it myself. I’ve been taking these classes lately—remember?”

“Yeah—you were talking about that the other day—”

She kissed him passionately on the neck. “I had planned on changing into this outfit that I just bought—want to give me a minute? I’ll be right back—then we can eat.”

“Sure, honey—whatever you want.”

She slipped into the bedroom and shut the door quietly behind her. “This is my chance,” he whispered to Tootsie, who was sniffing a partially eaten cookie which was hiding under the couch. He quietly went over to the foyer, opened his suitcase, and pulled out a small, black box. He opened it to reveal a large princess-cut diamond on a platinum band. Walking over to the table, he thought, this is it—this is everything. What if she says no? Too late now—I guess. James placed the ring in the middle of the chocolate frosting and decided to join Jillian in the bedroom. A little spontaneity?

Jillian's Gift (a short story)

2009-05-13T07:40:00.000-07:00

A soft snow fell on the outskirts of Ithaca, where Jillian waited patiently, peeling and de-veining shrimp. Her soft, smooth hands worked quickly, as she hummed a few bars of “Lonely Girls” along with the stereo, until the phone rang.

“I don't have the time!” Jillian dropped the shrimp she was working on, rinsed her fingers in the sink and snatched the phone of the receiver. “Yes—ah hello?”

“Jillian dear, it's you're mother.”

Jillian nodded and paused for a moment as her mother continued, “Are you eating well? I know how bad things can be when you’re in grad school—”

“Mom, I’m fine—look, I don’t have time for these things.”

“No time for your own mother?”

“Mom, you know James? It's his birthday—”

“Now James is the one you've been dating for how long?”

“A year—I brought him home with me for Janie's baby shower?” Jillian twirled a strand of her long auburn hair around her finger and rolled her eyes.

“Oh yes, he's the one with those gorgeous green eyes and that cute little dog with the short legs—say, did I tell you? I talked to your sister yesterday—she says that Katie finally fits into the cute little jumper the two of you gave her.”

“Oh that's nice—but Mom, really now, I have to run.”

“What's the big deal? You aren't cooking for him are you?”

“Mom!” Jillian cleared her throat and calmly “It's his birthday—either I cook, or I spend a small fortune buying dinner at one of the restaurants downtown.”

“But you know what they say about men—when you cook a nice meal for them too soon in the relationship, they'll expect you to cook for them the rest of your life!”

“The rest of my life? Why can't you just ask me?”

“Ask you what?”

Jillian sighed and plunked down on the couch. “I don't know what you're talking about!”

“Ah Mom—you know—” Jillian wrapped the phone cord around her fingers until the tips were a tingling dark purple, and then released the pressure slowly, until her fingertips returned to their natural, soft pink color.

“Okay honey—your father wants to talk to you—are your finances okay?”

Jillian listened to her mother drone on about finances and the importance of yearly pap smears until her eyes wandered over to the clock. 6:30.

“He’ll be here any minute!” Jillian told her mother she had to run and quickly hung up—though her mother was still scolding her for swearing. Then she rushed around her apartment grabbing heaping handfuls of shirts and skirts, panties and pants.

Running back into her bedroom with arms stuffed with month’s worth of clothing, she opened the closet door with her foot and shoved the dirty laundry inside. After repeating this a few times, she found it hard to get the closet door closed, but after a few strong tugs she forced the closet shut. “Now to get ready—make-up. . . hair. . .what to wear?”

After fighting with the closet again, trying to pry it open to find her skimpy little black dress—Jillian gave up. “It’s 7:00—he’s supposed to be here in an hour—” Finding her purse on the coffee table, Jillian grabbed her coat. “To hell with it—he has a key—I’m going shopping.”

Day off...the time to chat.

2009-05-13T07:15:00.000-07:00

Well, based on the lack of my blog entries, one could easily presume that I have re-entered the work force. Normally, I would be up to my elbows in UND Aerospace flight manuals right now, fine-tuning the verbiage, checking for grammar and ensuring the design is consistent with other manuals. I also started working for Ntractive yesterday evening--a contract position that has me reviewing their CRM software content and helping them market it. I did an interview with them about a year ago for Prairie Business Magazine--since then their company has grown and has a number of friendly, fun people to work with....so I basically am working about 50 hours a week (give or take).

But I took today off because my foot is terribly sore. I went to see Dr. Lo yesterday, who told me that my foot was healing well and that he wasn't concerned, but that the 5th metatarsal bone (where I had my tailor bunion) had shifted slightly. Thankfully, the bone abuts the joint well, so no surgery is needed, but I am to take it easy and not put my weight on it. I can walk, but I'm not to stand with my weight on it....if I don't obey I could be back on crutches. Yikes.

Buddy isn't faring much better either. About a week and a half ago, while my husband Craig was in Portland for a conference his company held, I found out that Buddy has lymphoma. The vet said that we could expect him to live for about 2-3 months with treatment. He's on prednisone and has responded well to it--he's eating again and regained the 9 pounds he'd lost.

If I have the chance, I'll edit a short story and post it later today...

Ciao!

Mason Jennings is a genius

2009-04-27T07:54:00.000-07:00

"Black panther defy the power;fight the violence with nonviolence
"What good is justice if the scales are bent, by a criminal government?"--Mason Jennings

***

Craig found a Mason Jennings album that I'd lost years ago--listening to it, and it's funny to hear the sentiments he held then when we now have an African American president. He's a musical genius in my book if he can make the clarinet sound cool. I get giddy reminiscent every time I hear this album because I equate it with the start of my relationship with Craig back in 2000. I went to see Jennings in a bar in Fargo with a friend (Brooks West) and was pleasantly surprised. Then again, Brooks usually had good taste in music (there's another story there, but I'll go into that later).

I hated playing the clarinet during junior high--but our teacher (Mr. Schmidt) promised us the trip of a lifetime to Valley Fair in Shokapee, Minn. By the time I was 13 and in the eighth grade, I didn't care anymore.

We sold the Metro for a fair price on Saturday. Sometime, when I'm feeling more vocal, I'll tell you the whole story.

Anyway, I gotta run. I might have landed myself a job today...have a meeting at 11 a.m.

Kitchen sink is full, would like to pitch it

2009-04-23T10:53:00.000-07:00

I can't say that I've had the chance to be a happy homemaker while I've been out of work. I did manage to clean the entire house last week, but somehow, within two days time it's a disaster again. I need to get to the dishes in the sink, but haven't because I've been so busy this morning/afternoon.

Buddy is sick again with something--I think it's his teeth, but whatever it is, he's sleeping far too often, hasn't been his cheerful self, and won't eat. Not even treats. So, he's seeing the vet this afternoon....

Also, I am grateful to be walking (limping) around, though I'd like my normal mobility back. Recently, I ran into a few people and they asked me what I'd done to my foot, or whether I simply had been wearing uncomfortable shoes and whatnot. Physical therapy is going well, but it isn't moving along as quickly as I'd like it too--but if my therapist (Craig Hahn) pushes me even harder, the chance of me even having the ability to limp becomes scarce.

Going to try and sell our Metro... 2001 Chevy with 163,000 miles if anyone is interested. We're getting a Honda Passport in about a month from my in-laws who just bought a new minivan and didn't want to bother with selling it. They knew we needed a car that has the room to transport the kiddo, a few suitcases and the dog, so they were quite thoughtful. If we don't sell the Metro, we'll have 4 cars. We have no use for 4 cars. Heck, I don't think we need 3 cars, but Craig really wanted his truck.

Forget the party hats, uncork the Champagne!

2009-04-16T14:20:00.001-07:00

I have a reason to celebrate today: I am finally off my crutches and walking! While I am still hobbling about, the feeling of ditching the crutches is liberating. What's more, after an intriguing interview today, I'm feeling fairly confident about the job market's crystal ball.

Another reason to celebrate? Well yesterday, when I went to put on one of my favorite suits for an interview, I couldn't help but notice how loose my pants were. So I tried on an old pair of skinny jeans (Calvin Kleins) that I've had for about six years but haven't been able to wear for about a year...they fit perfectly!

So tell me, why does my bathroom scale read the same weight? Did I actually build muscle while I commandeered those wretched metal "aids"?

Regardless, I'm fixing to gain a couple of pounds tonight. I told Craig he had to take me (and Emerson) out for dinner, and I think my stomach is craving a nice, juicy steak. As my vegetarian friends would say, "That's just because you're lacking iron and/or are addicted to the opiates found in meat."

Crazy as it may sound, from what I understand, that could be true--casein, found in dairy products apparently breaks down into an opiate similar to heroine--which thereby affects the brain once it enters the blood stream. So, sure there's a reason to be vegan too. But what would I savor with my wine?

:)

2009-04-15T19:02:00.001-07:00

People have been asking me why I haven't been on Facebook, Twitter and Blogger lately. I don't have a good answer for them, other than that I've been extremely busy--funny how I feel busier now than when I was working full time.

I've been editing the Near North Neighborhood historical brochure and post card book (with the accompanying interactive PDF), which feels like a full time job some days. While I haven't been writing many stories lately, I have been writing quite a few cover letters and revising my curriculum vitae for every job I apply to. That in itself can be a full time job--and choosing which skills to highlight can feel like I'm trying to be a psychic or a mind reader.

But my efforts are beginning to come to fruition. I have had a few interviews and have a few hopeful prospects. I should find the right fit for me soon.

When I did finally have the chance to check my Facebook page last night, I stumbled across my high school cousin who put a shout out to people to vote for her to write the speech for their graduation ceremony. Of course, I offered to give it an edit if she needed it--and since it was late on a school night, I told her she needed to get some beauty rest (not that she needs it).

Right now, Emerson is in bed, Craig is off getting the flat tire on his new truck mended (he and a friend at work swapped trucks because they were envious of each other's ugly hunk of metal), so I decided to put the American Idol aside and rediscover the genius of Gary Soto. He's a writer that has me falling in love with language all over again. He effortlessly employs metonomy and has such vivid imagery, his diction is just....I digress.

Why don't I share a short one? Here's one my former professor and friend Thom Tammaro read for us at our wedding. I found a copy of it online at Englishforums.com, which is why it has embedded links:

"Oranges"
Gary Soto (1995)

The first time I walked
With a girl, I was twelve,
Cold, and weighted down
With two oranges in my jacket.
December. Frost cracking
Beneath my steps, my breath
Before me, then gone,
As I walked toward
Her house, the one whose
Porch

light burned yellow
Night and day, in any weather.
A dog barked at me, until
She came out pulling
At her gloves, face bright
With rouge. I smiled,
Touched her shoulder, and led
Her down the street, across
A used car lot and a line
Of newly planted trees,
Until we were breathing
Before a drugstore. We
Entered, the tiny bell
Bringing a saleslady
Down a narrow aisle of goods.
I turned to the candies
Tiered like bleachers,
And asked what she wanted -
Light in her eyes, a smile
Starting at the corners
Of her mouth. I fingered
A nickel in my pocket,
And when she lifted a chocolate
That cost a dime,
I didn't say anything.
I took the nickel from
My pocket, then an orange,
And set them quietly on
The counter. When I looked up,
The lady's eyes met mine,
And held them, knowing
Very well what it was all
About.

Outside,
A few cars hissing past,
Fog hanging like old
Coats between the trees.
I took my girl's hand
in mine for two blocks,
Then released it to let
Her unwrap the chocolate.
I peeled my orange
That was so bright against
The gray of December
That, from some distance,
Someone might have thought
I was making a fire in my hands.

For me, Soto's frequent fruit metaphors always leave me hungry for more.

Checking In...

2009-04-07T08:51:00.000-07:00

I've been a terrible blogger lately. I've been too busy applying to jobs, revising my curriculum vitae and tailoring my cover letter to think about blogging. Recently, I "applied" to a posting on Craig's List that indicated a father needed help tutoring his son in English. So I sent a brief note (no contact info, or details, thankfully) and asked him his son's age, concepts he's struggling with (reading, writing, analysis, etc.) and what materials he's currently studying.

The response I received was eye opening. Apparently, the guy wanted to pay me $50 an hour, for three hours a week, for about a month, while his son will be traveling in the States with his nanny. Because his nanny didn't have a bank account, he wanted me to pay her too on his behalf, and he would send me extra money. Right away I knew it was a scam, but the kicker?

The guy lived in Denmark. Though I didn't respond to his e-mail, I really wanted to say something like:

Well, Claudius, something is rotten in the state of Denmark! Perhaps your son Hamlet would learn more about English if he chatted a little more with Yorick, and what would your nanny's name be? Ophelia, because she's drowning in debt.

And by the way, how dumb do you think I am? My last name certainly isn't Falstaff!

OK, that felt good to vent. If you can't tell, I'm absolutely itching to get back to work and feel like my old busy self again. Thankfully, the Near North Neighborhood historical walking tour brochure and postcard book project has kept me busy. I've been editing it (as a volunteer) for the past few weeks and it's finally coming together. The greatest hurdle we had was verifying dates and locations, images of buildings and historical information for accuracy. We've found a few discrepancies (for example the history of the YWCA in our neighborhood), and it's caused a debate with some of the local history buffs.

I did enjoy seeing the many friends I've made at the Athena Awards last week. There were a number of women whom I'd interviewed who were up for the award. I'll have to be certain to nominate someone again next year. There are so many people who deserve recognition for what they do!

OK, I'm back again

2009-03-31T10:57:00.000-07:00

Sorry I haven't been keeping up this blog as frequently as initially planned. I've been way to busy heading off to physical therapy, revising my CV and cover letters and applying to jobs. I am looking forward to a few great prospects and the new opportunities they could bring, but I'll sit tight until I hear from them...or until I break down and contact them, whichever comes first.

While I did have a couple of phone interviews, nothing has solidified yet. But I'm keeping my chin up. The recent flood situation may also throw a monkey wrench into a few scenarios as well. My family has been fortunate enough to stay high and dry--but they're living in the highest part of Fargo, a few miles away from the river and overland flooding. However, they've been kind enough to get their knees dirty by sandbagging at the Fargodome and on location. My aunt mentioned that she'd been sandbagging all day in an attempt to save her friend's home, but it was a lost cause. One of my best friends mentioned that she'd been watching the trucks drive back and forth past her house carrying loads of sand--then her road was closed to foster the flood efforts more easily.

OK, as promised, here is the rest of the story!

Bearing all, Part 3

"What are you doing?" Lou asked.

“I have to check the car.” I unbuckled my seatbelt and got out. “Wait here.” But she didn’t listen. Quietly, she got out of the car and poked her head around the front fender. “Doesn’t look like much.”

“There’s just a small dent—we were lucky, hopefully the dealer won’t notice.”

“What’s this?” Lou ran her hand across the dent and winced. “Ooh. Icky! I think you hit something.”

“What is it?” I walked up to the front of the car again to find her wiping a bloody hand in the gravel on the shoulder of the road.

“I hope it wasn’t anything serious—just a skunk maybe. I’ll check it out.” I motioned for her to stay there, maybe get back into the car, but she followed me back to where I thought we’d hit it. Always so nosy, always having to be a part of everything.

I was happy when I was the one that found it. At first, I wasn’t sure what it was exactly. An indistinct bloody lump of fur. Brown fur—from what I could tell by the moonlight.

A car rushed past and honked its horn, scaring us a little. I yelled at Lou to go back to the car, but she didn’t. Instead, she came over and looked at it.

“What is it? A dog?”

It did look like a dog, at first. It’s small, wet black nose tucked into its side. I crouched down to look at it closer. Thick brown fur, matted in blood. I kicked it gently, but it made no movement.

“Whatever it is, it’s definitely dead.” I kicked it again, harder this time, and it flopped over onto its back.

“Oh no, a bear. It’s a bear,” she said, folding her arms across her chest.

“It’s just a cub. But its mother might be around here somewhere—they usually don’t leave their side—not at this age.”

“Mother? We gotta go,” Lou said.

“I can’t just leave him here. They’re rare, maybe even endangered.” I knelt down and picked up the body. It was still warm, soft. “It’s such a shame.”

“We can’t stay here,” she said, turning to face the empty road and massive rocks in the distance. “What if the mother comes back?”

“We should tell somebody; someone needs to know.”

“No one needs to know.” Lou threw herself at me and I stumbled backward. Regaining my footing, I watched her run back to the car and jump in. What could I do but follow her?

I opened the passenger door and tried to calmly talk to her, but she just screamed at me, “Get in the car. We have to leave. Now.”

“But I don’t see why. We should just—”

She grabbed me by the arm, hard, and dug her nails in. “We don’t need the insurance company on our ass about this. If we tell somebody, we’ll have to report it—and any damage done.”

“But there’s only a small dent—it’s nothing.” I tried to free myself from her grip, but she dug her nails in harder.

“Jack, get in the car.” Her eyes looked dark, evil. I’d never seen her that angry before. Her thin lips stretched tightly across her teeth. She looked like she could tear my heart out with that mouth. But then her grip lightened, her face softened.

“Wwwhat’s that?” She sounded like a three year old, and looked like one, eyes huge, round, and finger pointing somewhere behind me. I turned around, and saw something moving in a nearby bush.

“Maybe we should leave,” I whispered. I spun around—hit the trunk with a thud, and slipped. I landed hard on my ass—gravel dug into my palms.

“We need to tell somebody.” I tried to tell her, but there was nothing I could do. I jumped up, brushed off, and before I could get back into the car, I heard the door slam. The car rumbled to a start, and all I could do was stare.

The taillights, burning red, brought tears to my eyes. But she couldn’t see me. In her eyes, she’d left nothing behind—except a poor dead bear, and a few skid marks.

Behind me I heard more rustling. It moved closer and made a low coughing sound. All I could do was wait.

Crazy weather, no fun with crutches

2009-03-26T06:42:00.000-07:00

I'm sorry it's been nearly a week since I last blogged. I've been terribly busy looking for another job and editing the Near North Neighborhood brochure (on a volunteer basis) in my spare time. This weather has been troublesome--the car is stuck and I'm stranded.

But, as promised, here is the next installment of my short story:

Bearing All (part 2)

I picked up a pack of smokes that I’d stashed in the cup holder, glanced at the picture of a limp cigarette, and the caption which said “Cigarette smoking can lead to impotency.” Canadian smokes have such attitude. I shoved two in my mouth, lit them and handed one to Lou, who had taken up smoking only for the trip. It didn’t bother me so long as she remained relaxed. She could be such a backseat driver.

Lou puffed the smoke, coughed a little. I leaned over and kissed her firmly on the lips, only taking my eyes off the dotted line for a second. The road curved sharply, and I swerved a little to stay on it. The king size bed waiting for us in Lake Lou was slowly becoming a reality. Despite how interested I was in her, a part of me just wanted to sleep.

Lou rested her head on my shoulder. “It’d be a shame to have an accident. To think all this driving was for nothing,” she said.

I wanted to pull over, wrap my arms around her small frame, and take her in. She didn’t know it, but this move—which she always did on trips like these—made me even sleepier. I smelled her shampoo—because of her dandruff, she always smelled like some kind of flower dipped in bleach, but it was familiar, comforting.

I looked in the mirror at the chip in her front tooth as she exhaled. Some of the smoke blew in my face, which made my eyes water. Then she French inhaled it again, through her nose. For a non-smoker, she picked up the habit easily.

“I didn’t know you knew how to French inhale.”

“There are many things you don’t know about me,” she said, and the moonlight glinted in her eyes. For a second, I believed her, but the thought was broken by the soft wetness of her lips on my cheek. She rummaged through her purse and took out a map of Alberta. She unfolded it and traced the thick blue lines that led to our destination.

“How much longer?” she asked, flicking her cigarette ash out the window.

We passed signs warning us of a steep grade. I imagined being caught behind a semi as it barreled off the road and shivered involuntarily.

“Just a few more miles.” I leaned over to show her where we were on the map, but it was dark and hard to see the small print. I flipped the map over, looking for a detailed view.

“Let me do it,” she said and snatched the map back. Her cigarette caught the edge of the map and it smoldered. Frantically, she pawed at the map. I tried to snatch the map back to throw it out the window, but she wouldn’t let go of it.

We hit a big bump.

I eased on the brakes.

“What was that?”

I said nothing—I didn’t know. But for the first time I finally did what I should have done in the first place: I pulled over.

Bearing All

2009-03-18T07:18:00.000-07:00

So, keeping with my blog's title, I've been looking at some of the fiction I've written and thought I would post excerpts over a few days to create the whole short story (from what I understand, people hate reading long posts).

Here's the beginning of "Bearing All" a short story that first appeared in my MFA graduate thesis. I completely overhauled it this weekend:

BEARING ALL

Somewhere between Mount Rundle and the Three Sisters mountain range, Lou urged me to continue onward, toward our destination, the one she had no problem choosing when the travel agent asked us. She’d seen a brochure—the one with the enormous hotel set into the mountain, the one with the “charming” gift shops and tremendous view. I’d told her it would be too expensive—tried to show her our alternatives, the Super 8, Motel 6, or something without a number like the Ho Jo—since she had her heart set on Alberta.

If we were spending that kind of money, I had hoped to visit someplace a little more exotic, like the French Riviera, or Crete. She said she’d never get on a plane as long as she lived, paranoid that the plane would crash into the Pacific, or on top of mountain like that soccer team, before I could even book tickets.

So she picked The Fairmont Hotel in Lake Louise, Alberta. “The name was a sign,” she said, calling it ‘Lake Lou’ from then on.

She sounded like a 16 year old making a road trip to Hell, Michigan for the T-shirt. I didn’t mind. After she miscarried, I’d vowed to make her happy. Take her mind off things. Even if I knew that when we got there she’d want to take pictures of nothing but road signs, or lounge around in the hotel room, ordering bottle after bottle of champagne.

By the time we reached Banff, it was late and I was sick of driving. I had asked Lou to help me out in Calgary, but she said she had a headache. In Moose Jaw it was an upset stomach, and in Winnipeg, menstrual cramps. I didn’t even know she had her period. But when she leaned over and started to nibble on my ear, I didn’t care. I just wanted to get there.

I loved her, yet she wasn’t the kind of woman I saw myself spending the rest of my life with. She was transitive. Like a good pair of tennis shoes, she was comfortable. Truth is, I’d thought about asking her to marry me early in our relationship, but that was three years ago, and she’d never pressed it, so I never bothered. I’d thought about it again when we found out she was pregnant—even looked at a few rings, but before I could buy one the baby was gone and I was off the hook.

The pen is mightier than the sword

2009-03-16T13:17:00.000-07:00

“Once language exists only to convey information, it is dying.” — Richard Hugo, The Triggering Town

Though I’ve been writing professionally for more than a decade now, I’ll never forget one of the hardest lessons I learned early on: How to connect with my audience to create interesting, passionate copy that not only informs, but entertains.

I wish I could say that I had a unique ability that helps me craft a story. Take for example, another professional writer whom I know well — my husband Craig. As a synaesthete, Craig has interesting way of finding the right words to express what he wants to say: for him, words have color.

When Craig writes, he selects a word from his palette that has the right hue, and when he revises, he knows that something is off when the words don’t “match.” The word “Minnesota,” for example, he sees as purple, while my first name evokes a warm shade of brown. Although, I’ve always wished it was something prettier, like my favorite color, maroon.

Talent is a priori, a posteriori

Regardless of whether I agree with Plato in that we are born with certain predispositions or talents (a priori, like Craig’s ability), or Aristotle that these talents are learned (a posteriori, as in my case), I believe that there comes a time when everyone wishes to share their insights — whether pragmatic or ephemeral.

Some of the most intriguing, courageous people I’ve interviewed lead ordinary lives, extraordinarily. Of course it would be far easier for me to revert to my formal training in creative writing and make up stories about the people, places and events that were featured in Red River Valley Women Today. However, it wouldn’t have been ethical.

Nor would it have been as interesting — though I don’t uphold the cliché that ‘truth is stranger than fiction,’ I do find that the most interesting fiction is based in truth.

So, oddly enough, when writing truth, I often rely on my training in fiction to craft interesting narrative.

Though I won’t bore you with a lesson on the theory of literary craft (Joseph Campbell can pack up his heroes who wander in circles), I will say that what captures my interest most, and by extension my audience (I hope) is found in the minute details.

For example, when I wrote about UND First Lady Marcia Kelley was for a special section that appeared in the Grand Forks Herald, the Kelleys had just moved into the University House, their new home. Because construction on their kitchen wasn’t complete, she and her husband, UND President Robert Kelley, ate quite a few peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

In this story, the peanut butter glued the narrative together, and represented their down-to-earth attitudes. When I met with Ms. Kelley again, she chuckled, mentioning that when she goes to the grocery store people still ask her whether she has a jar of peanut butter in her cart.

Inciting power, passion

Learning to write for an audience also is a hard lesson for students to learn. When I was an English teacher, one of the more difficult things for me to do was to inspire my students enough to want to communicate.

Often, if students don’t have a message to share, finding the words to fill a few pages of an essay is difficult. Meanwhile, inciting enough passion in a young adult to take a stand on a topic to research it thoroughly and persuade an audience to take action takes more than a little coaxing … I quickly learned that in today’s world, teens aren’t persuaded by threats of detention.

But I wasn’t a disheartened old grump. I genuinely was overjoyed when a few students stopped me after their graduation ceremonies to tell me that they appreciated my efforts, for the onus was on them — when students claim their education and feel empowered, I was empowered.

It’s far easier to teach to a pack of wolves than a herd of sheep. I discovered this while teaching college courses as an adjunct professor. Many of my students wanted to delve deeper, probe me for answers even more, to question my authority.

I loved the challenge, which is why I continue to teach for my enjoyment, and have taught creative writing class through the Grand Forks Public School District’s Adult Continuing Education program. My students were people who range in age from their early 40s to late 70s and come from all walks of life — the mill worker, car salesman, substitute teacher, farmer, reverend — each is interesting and has intriguing stories to share, and I’m honored that my students are willing to share their journeys with me.

Language incites power, passion. Forever will I be grateful for my nagging curiosity and the ability to find the right words to unleash my creativity. And thank you, for allowing me to share my interest in storytelling and the stories of the area’s most fascinating women.