Sunday, January 1, 2023
Sunday, November 27, 2022
Maybe a couple of years ago in our fiction group, I said something about perfect tense, and Kristen asked me how I knew so much about grammar. I shrugged and said I learned a lot in graduate school.
Funny, I have thought about that brief comment and that pseudo lie in the years that have passed.
I didn’t mean to lie.
I didn’t have an answer.
Truth is, my love of grammar started long before this.
My story begins when I was in tenth grade. My family had moved to New Jersey when I was in eighth grade, and I struggled in school—but that’s not quite true, either. My older sister was a year ahead of me, and she excelled in everything without trying. I may have been smart, too, but I had different skills and different interests, so I bounced back and forth between the college prep courses that required an A to continue to the next year and the regular courses.
Funny, I would get As in the regular courses without trying which would kick me into the college prep courses. Then, I would get a B in the college preparatory course, and the system bumped back down to the regular course.
This was a typical pattern for me.
I didn’t care much for my grades. I didn’t much care to follow in my sister’s footsteps. I was a gloomy teenager without much hope. But I loved writing and words.
Freshman year I was in the regular English course. I breezed through this with an A.
Sophomore year I was in the accelerated, college preparatory course taught by Ms. Stout. She was particular about being addressed by Ms., and God planned for me to be in this class.
This was years ago. Decades ago.
We sniggered and called it the bible for Ms. Stout’s outside of class.
Ms. Stout was an intense woman with fiery blue eyes. I wouldn’t want her to know that we joked about the LAW book.
But maybe she would have laughed, too.
I think we had a list of about 30 rules outlined in the LAW book, and I think I wrote about this in an earlier blog. These 30 rules were LAWs. According to Ms. Stout, if we broke any of these laws three times in an essay, this would our grade to a C. Any subsequent infracture would drop our grade down.
So, three broken rules would bring us down to a C. Four to a D. Five to an F.
We learned quickly.
I doubt any teacher today could get away with such strict rules, but we learned the rules and how to identify them very quickly.
Most of these rules I have forgotten. The best I learned quickly.
Passive voice was perhaps the most valuable. I recall combing my essays for passive voice on the bus before school, looking for the tell-tale be-verb combinations. I found them quickly and learned to distinguish them well. Once, I questioned her passive voice question, saying it was not a verb phrase, and she agreed with me, raising my grade with a smile. She seemed pleased that I knew the difference between a passive verb phrase and what might have been an adjective phrase.
Passive voice seemed to be the most useful tool. Ironically, I use passive voice steadily in my current, medical job, and this continues to annoy me because the requirements of my job demand the passive.
The other rules were numerous but logical. The only other one I remember clearly is, Avoid “it” and “there” as a subject when they are placeholders without any specific meaning.
Other rules are less impressed on my memory but probably just as marked on my style. Not using “wise” at the end of words was another rule: “Grammar-wise, the class was very fruitful.” This sloppy contraction never seemed useful or helpful except when I needed to avoid it.
Ms. Stout was a funny woman with large blue eyes and dark black hair. That classroom in New Jersey was just a partition off a larger common walkway, and yet I remember Ms. Stout vividly talking of essays and meaning and words. Every word conveyed meaning, she had said. Make every word count and make every word effective.
I made a B in her class and ended up in the regular class the next year.
Funny, when I started in college, diagraming sentences and learning about transformational grammar, I thought of Ms. Stout. The foundations of my grammar probably started earlier, but Ms. Stout solidified some of the excitement and passion for what I learned.
Then, I read tons of Chomsky and Pinker, and I don’t know if I agree with everything that Ms. Stout taught us as a straight rule. I think I learned that grammar is communication and understanding, not just rules and formulation.
But I learned some rules and formulation to understand the expectation and parameters around us is extraordinarily good. The more we understand about language and its patterns and its deviations and its transformations the more we can communicate more effectively.
Or so we think.
Or so I have thought.
Monday, September 5, 2022
As many of you remember (or perhaps you don't as it has been so long since last I posted), I am not made of the same stuff as the younger generations. The stardust and quantum energies that coalesced to form the haunted and ruinous temple that is me are older and more basic than those of the generations that have since been born. Were I to make a real world comparison, I would liken myself to a rotary phone with a ten foot spiral cord that was ever getting tangled to an iPhone 13.
Evidence of this sad little truth lies in an incident that occurred some months back when I made a trip to Starbucks. Now, I would like to point out that I do not drink coffee. Coffee and I do not play well together, digestively speaking. However, I do love the smell of coffee and I have tried to drink it on many occasions, but the resulting reactions are unpleasant for myself and everyone around me.
As such, I drink tea. Starbucks is not known for tea.
My family, you see, they drink coffee. They enjoy the fanciful concoctions with names that sound as if they belong in one of my novels. Chocolate flavored coffee or those with flavored creamers seem to delight them the most. And I, being the considerate patriarch, decided one day that I would stop by one of the local Starbucks on my way home just to surprise them with something they enjoyed. I was feeling very proud of myself as I turned into the drive thru lane. I mean, there did seem to be an inordinate number of cars, but it was a Friday just after rush hour so I was still feeling confident in my generosity.
The universe had other ideas.
My turn was soon approaching and I had come within site of the menu board. This is where I should have realized that I was in over my head. Still, undaunted, I stalked the listings like a Hanna Barbera lion in search of my prey. To my compounding confusion, I fond things such as: Cappuccino( I have heard of these from TV and movies), Honey almond milk flat white (ummmm...), Cinnamon Dolce Latte (Sounds...fancy?), Macchiatos (WTF?), Mocha (Chocolate-ish?), Clover Brewed coffees, and these are just the "hot coffee" items!
Steady on, lad. You can do this.
Right then, it's nearly my turn though the person in front of me seems to be ordering for all of the city and the surrounding counties. More time to decipher these hipster (do people still say that?) runes. Hmmm...mocha. I've heard the wife say that before for...ice cream, maybe? No, something to do with desserts. It means coffee flavored chocolate? Well, I suppose it would be the reverse here. Mocha it is then.
The surburban-elite-land yacht finally pulled forward taking the far too tight turn like hippopotamus in a sluice. I slunk forward like the coffee Philistine that i am and prepared to order. The speaker crackled on a woman asked me what I would like to order.
"Two mochas, please" I answered.
"Which kind would you like?" she asked in return.
Which kind? There' s more than one? Bother.
I hurriedly look at the menu trying to see what I had missed. There were really only three options, but my brain latched onto the Frappachino (whatever in God's name that is) menu a glitched. There are at least a dozen varieties of those and so I replied, "Mocha Cookie Crumble."
There was a pause before she replied, "So you want Frappacinos, then?"
Frappaccino? What the hell is that? Oh, bother and damnation! I'm on the wrong menu.
"No, just a mocha please." I said hoping to steer the conversation back to where i thought it should be.
"Sir, which kind would you like?"
At this point, I could feel the judgement from the professional coffee drinkers in line behind me. Their vexation flew forward and piled itself on top my growing anxiety. Steady on, old bean. You can do this.
"Chocolate Cream, then, please"
Another slightly longer pause before she answered. "So you want a cold brew?"
Cold brew? What...oh, for the love of...wrong damn menu again! Wait, was she laughing?
I could feel the heat rising at the back of my neck and in my cheeks. My ancestors were looking down on me and facepalming in despair at my ineptness. But then just as I was to pull out of the line in shame, I found the right part of the menu.
"Ah, ha!" I exclaimed. "Two reserve mochas, please"
There was definitely laughter in the ranks when she answered. "What size would you like? Tall, Venti, or Grande?"
Venti? Grande? I haven't studied Latin in 25 years. What the ever loving f....
At this point, one of the cars behind me honked its horn followed shortly by another.
Frustrated and in a panic, I replied, "Look, I don't know the words to tell you that I want the chocolate flavored coffee in the large cup!"
There was a longish pause after that before the speaker came on again. Laughter tumbled out in digital buckets. She tried to reply but had to cut off her mic. I didn't wait for her to answer. I just pulled forward to the window and then handed my card to the person at the till. I didn't look at them save for a brief moment when they handed me the drinks. I believe I saw pity in her eyes, but I didn't linger long enough to find out for certain.
I am told that I did indeed get the right coffee drinks, though I think my family may have taken pity on the old man and told me what I wanted to hear. I have not returned to that Starbucks or any other as I am certain the tale of tragically unhip old lion has been spread far and wide.
Saturday, August 27, 2022
This is a little dated. I meant to post this a couple of weeks ago.
Our writing group has been meeting online during Stupid Covid. I think we tried to have a group once--but I've seen a few of these awesome people through this time.
Certainly not often enough.
A couple of weeks ago, we had an in-person workshop, and it was fabulous. The picture above is from the brewery where some of us wandered after the meeting.
I know I said this previously, but I will say this again: online workshops do not replace the camaraderie and bonds that we build in the writing world. I think writers have an innate vulnerability, and we need the support, encouragement, and creativity that Zoom cannot replace.
Sitting around a table, discussing the possibilities in a new story, and yes, sometimes sharing a beer make the bonds in writing groups really powerful and so dang interesting.
Saturday, August 20, 2022
Sunday, June 26, 2022
Saturday, May 14, 2022
Sunday, April 24, 2022
I am neither an expert on Kafka or on Korean culture or on Spike Lee, so forgive me if my logic is absurd.
Recently, I listened to The Metamorphesis and The Trial. Usually, I listen to some commentary and some criticism about the books, too.
Friday, February 25, 2022
I have lots of books.
I'm trying to go through and filter the ones with which I can part and with which I want to read again.
So, I'm rereading some of the books that I may end up on the departure pile. It's a sad, mournful task, like I'm saying goodbye to old friends, but like I said, I have lots of books.
I recently reread my old copy of Slaughterhouse Five. It's falling apart, and I need to turn the crumbling pages as if it's 100 years old, but it's as good as I remember it. Funny, much of the rhetoric and narrative have been imitated since Kurt Vonnegut wrote this--the narrative within the narrative, the overlapping time, the repetition--but the quality and wit still stand.
But I want to write about a different book: The Castle of Otranto. I would not have read this if I hadn't had to read this for a wonderful graduate class about the progression of novels of the gothic and romance. This class mapped the progression of gothic and romance novels from the 1600s to the early 1900s. Fascinating stuff.
The Castle of Otranto was in the list.
This is an extraordinary book for several reasons. First, printed in 1764, this is credited as being as the first gothic novel.
Let me pause here. The term "gothic" is very problematic, especially in contemporary times, when we think more about Trent Reznor and emo than traditional gothic. But this novel created the first literary world in charming castles, ancient history, romantic clashes, illusive ghosts, and heroic honor.
As a novel from 1764, you can't really sit down to read this like you would sit down to read Dean Koontz or Janet Evanovich. However, this book offers such a foundational look into the history of the novel and the genre, and we rarely have such a definitive novel as to say, "This novel set the foundation for all other novels like it."
In this case, I think we can.
I'm keeping this one for a few more years.
Sunday, January 23, 2022
A couple of weeks ago my great uncle passed. He was 93 years old, but he had been fighting Alzheimer's for several years.
My great uncle Bob is someone I would like to write about, but perhaps this time has passed. I do not know.
As a child, I did not understand his life or who he was--he lived on a farm without a television and often had strange kids and quiet people staying with him. He was gracious and kind when we visited, but he didn't talk much. We would walk around the farm, and he might point out a combine or plane or tractor, which were foreign to me off the farm. I loved the kittens and sheep that he might have, but mostly, it was quiet and a little boring on the farm. Bob traveled a lot when he wasn't farming--all over the world. This intrigued me, but I sort of thought he was vacationing or something.
I didn't understand who he was or what he was doing.
As an adult, I didn't see him much, but when I did, I asked him lots of questions. I learned that he traveled the world teaching farming and agriculture--presumably, not like when I went to college. I asked him once how many counties he had visited, and he told me it would be easier to count the countries he hadn't seen. He said this with a laugh. I believe this is true--once, a few years ago, I sat in front of a world map and listed off the countries, starting in South America, moving to Africa, then Asia, and then finally Europe. He had been to almost all of them.
The kids that stayed with him, they were foster kids. In the last years, one has stayed with Bob to help take care of him. I asked this former foster child now adult how many foster kids stayed with Bob over the years. He told me it was over 40. There is a doorframe in the farmhouse with markings all along it, both sides of the wide arch--markings with lines, dates, and names for the different kids. It's overwhelming to see all the names and dates.
And the strange, quiet people--I do not really remember this very well--one is Jan (pronounced Yahn) from Northern Europe. He came to Bob to learn farming and learned flying instead. They have been friends for years. There were others, I think: quiet foreigners and farmers and previous foster kids. Some from other parts of the world.
In his death, I do not want his life and story to go away, but in the last years, his memories have been slipping away. I hope and pray to have the chance to write about him, perhaps through his foster kids and friends.
His is a story I hope to tell.
Sunday, January 16, 2022
I haven't posted in a minute, but here I am, posting to market a fellow writer!
One of our writers at the Writer's Center and in the fiction group is launching his first novel, Wild Salvation.
I am honored and excited to say that we workshopped this last year. While I do not normally read Western novels, the plot and characters in this novel pulled me in quickly. The descriptions are fantastic, and I wish I could attend the book launch: It’s Friday, February 4th from 6-10 pm at Howl + Hide and Wild’s in Fountain Square (a leather and barber shop) in Indy.
I'm excited to hear all about this and get my (signed?) copy! Hopefully, more to come on this!
Sunday, September 19, 2021
So here's what happened.
About six weeks ago, I was getting repetitive messages from my Facebook Instant Messager. Random stuff, but mostly, the messages were job applications, from job positions for secretaries, airline repair persons, waitstaff, and a few other messages asking for information from applicants. "Send applicantion materials," or "Contact Joe for more information," or similar messages. The messages would get responses ("What information do you need?" "What kind of experience are you looking for?" etc.), as if these were group chats.
On a few days, I would get a dozen or more texts.
Obviously, I was puzzled.
My husband even removed my Facebook Messenger from my phone because it was getting annoying.
The first few days, I ignored it. Dumb move. I thought this was prompted from some job sites I had visited.
The following weekend, I got onto my Facebook page and explored a bit. The contact email and phone number were not mine. I tried to reset my password, but I could not because the email and phone number were not mine--the reset code was sent to a different phone number. Luckily, I was still logged in. I found a place to report that my account had been compromised.
A few more days went by, I could not log into Facebook at all. I did some Googling about Facebook and about the best I could do was to send Facebook messages that my account had been hacked. Turns out, Facebook has no resources or customer service. I couldn't contact Facebook at all. And I am not the first person to go through this.
A week or so later, I searched Facebook help pages, checked my account, and found that my account is disabled.
Funny, when I travelled abroad, I used Facebook to communicate and to share stories with family, but now, I do not use Facebook beyond sharing much beyond sharing Fiction Forge posts. When I saw that my account was disabled, I felt relief. I think I have only one regret: some people from my high school have contacted me for reunions. I haven't gone to one, but I may not know about the next one.
I'm glad to be off Facebook.
I haven't been on Facebook in over a month, and I do not miss it.
And now for some "news" from the Onion about Facebook:
One more oldie (a little out-dated from 2011), just because this one makes me laugh: