Mentor Monday--Common-Place

Common-place: A Common Space, an Uncommon Voice is a journal-type website co-sponsored by the American Antiquarian Society and the University of Oklahoma.

If you haven't come across it before, it's worth a visit if you're interested in American History prior to the 20th century.

Common-place is a common place for exploring and exchanging ideas about early American history and culture. A bit friendlier than a scholarly journal, a bit more scholarly than a popular magazine, Common-place speaks--and listens--to scholars, museum curators, teachers, hobbyists, and just about anyone interested in American history before 1900.

Here are two examples of the articles found in the October 2009 issue: "Blogging with Pickles: Adventures (and Misadventures) in the Quest to Capture the Flavor of Everyday School Life" by Jim Cullen, and, "Shivering Timbers: Sexing Up the Pirates in Early Modern Print Culture" by Carolyn Eastman. How can you resist reading more with titles like those?

Of particular note is the Common-Place Web Library that reviews sites covering a variety of topics from Abraham Lincoln to food. All the sources are accessible to the non-scholar.

--Diane

Poetry Friday: My Love For All Things Warm and Breathing

I have seldom loved more than one thing at a time,
yet this morning I feel myself expanding, each
part of me soft and glandular, and under my skin
is room enough now for the loving of many things,
and all of them at once, these students especially,
not only the girl in the yellow sweater, whose
name, Laura Buxton, is somehow the girl herself,
Laura for the coy green mellowing eyes, Buxton
for all the rest, but also the simple girl in blue
on the back row, her mouth sad beyond all reasonable
inducements, and the boy with the weight problem,
his teeth at work even now on his lower lip, and
the grand profusion of hair and nails and hands and
legs and tongues and thighs and fingertips and
wrists and throats, yes, of throats especially,
throats through which passes the breath that joins
the air that enters through these ancient windows,
that exits, that takes with it my own breath, inside
this room just now my love for all things warm and
breathing, that lifts it high to scatter it fine and
enormous into the trees and the grass, into the heat
beneath the earth beneath the stone, into the
boundless lust of all things bound but gathering.

--William Kloefkorn

I've never heard teaching described so . . . erotically.

Kloefkorn pushes boundaries with this one, and I'm sure some readers might find this disturbing. As a teacher myself, I love the different way Kloefkorn shows a teacher's passion -- not for what we teach, but for who we're teaching.

Thanks to The Writers Almanac for publishing it. Be sure to sign up for your daily dose.

"My Love For All Things Warm and Breathing" by William Kloefkorn, from Cottonwood County: Poems by William Kloefkorn and Ted Kooser. © Windflower Press, 1979.

The photo of the Tennessee classroom originated here.

This photo is by Alfred Eisenstadt.

Women Say the Darndest Things!

"In passing, also, I would like to say that the first time Adam had a chance he laid the blame on woman."

-Nancy Astor, British politician


"When choosing between two evils, I always try the one I've never tried before."

-Mae West, American actress

go to this blog for an interesting take on what Mother Teresa and Mae West had to say (you have to scroll down a little bit . . .)








"Think wrongly, if you please, but in all cases think for yourself.

-Doris Lessing, British writer




"The most popular labor-saving device is still money."

-Phyllis George, American sportscaster

Mentor Monday: Self-Discipline the Joyce Cary Way

It's something I struggle with daily -- finding the will to write. The work is hard. It's sometimes isolating. There are days when it seems hopeless to even consider myself talented enough. And so I find ways to distract myself until I gather the courage to finally stop avoiding it. The only person who will write my books is me. Life is too short and the work too long . . .

During these times, I often turn to a description of the author Joyce Cary's last months and days of writing. Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS) struck Cary and he died in 1957. I wish I could credit the writer, but I have been unable to locate that information.

So, how dedicated are you to your craft?

He ceased working in the top attic as the stairs became impossible for him and began to use Trudy's old private sitting-room on the ground floor as his study. He had metal grips fitted into the walls of the passages at various strategic points and with their aid and that of a stick could for a time get about without other help. When the disease attacked his hands he contrived a sling with an elastic band which could take the weight of his wrist and leave him free to write . . .

He was in bed all the time now and working under heartbreakingly difficult conditions. He now had a bed-desk invented by himself and made for him by his next-door neighbor, a magistrate whom Joyce called "the Judge". A roll of blank paper ran underneath which led across the desk to another roll on which the used paper was wound.

At first, he still had enough movement in his right hand to be able to push the paper forward as it was used. When this, too, became impossible his son Tristram devised an electrical switch by which Joyce dropped his wrist on a button and the paper moved forward automatically. The hand itself was supported by a sling and the pen or pencil was fastened to the fingers.
You can read more about Joyce Cary here.

Last Time. I Promise!

New writers are often told that they must read, read, read in the genre they want to write. All that reading won’t do a bit of good if you don’t take the time to analyze what you’ve read.

The three passages we’ve been working with describe three different times and places. They elicit separate moods, preparing us to enter the writer’s world. Surprisingly, they accomplish these tasks by using similar techniques. I’m going to use the first two passages to show you what I mean. After that, why don’t you try doing the same exercise with the Jean Fritz entry.

Laura Ingalls Wilder’s opening sentences are very, very simple. The hundred or so words I’ve quoted have a readability level of slightly above a 4th grade level. The individual word readability is probably much lower than that and most likely measures higher because Ingalls uses longer sentence structure. I’ve used color to emphasize several words that elicit feeling. Then, I’ve used bold print to show the repetition of phrase or sentence structure:

“Once upon a time, sixty years ago, a little girl lived in the Big Woods of Wisconsin, in a little gray house made of logs.
The great, dark trees of the Big Woods stood all around the house, and beyond them were other trees and beyond them were more trees. As far as a man could go to the north in a day, or a week, or a whole month, there was nothing but woods. There were no houses. There were no roads. There were no people. There were only trees and the wild animals who had their homes among them.”


Laura Ingalls Wilder

Picture yourself reading that passage aloud. Better yet, try it. Emphasize the blue words. Slow down when you get to the repeated phrasing. Feel the delicious scariness!

* * *
“If, instead of a pencil, I held a brush in my hand, I would paint the scene: the scene of Autumn Street…and Grandfather’s house would loom huge, out of proportion, awesome and austere, with the clipped lawn as smooth and green as patchwork pockets on a velvet skirt. The rough pink brick of the sidewalk, bordered by elms, would wind the length of the street, past the Hoffman’s house, past the bright forsythia bushes that grew around the great-aunts’ front porch, past the homes of strangers and friends and forgotten people, finally disappearing where the woods began.
…I would blur the woods. I would blur them with a murky mixture of brown and green and black, the hueless shade that I know from my dreams to be the color of pain.” Lois Lowry

There is scariness here, too, but Lowry's passage also hints at horror.

Try your hand at the last one. Color the words that elicit emotion. Underline the repeated phrasing:

* * *
“In my father’s study there was a large globe with all the countries of the world running around it. I could put my finger on the exact spot where I was and had been ever since I’d been born. And I was on the wrong side of the globe, I was in China in a city named Hankow, a dot on a crooked line that seemed to break the country right in two. The line was really the Yangtse River, but who would know by looking at a map what the Yangstse River really was?
“Orange-brown, muddy mustard-colored. And wide, wide, wide. With a river smell that was old and came all the way from the bottom. Sometimes old women knelt on the riverbank, begging the River God to return a son or grandson who may have drowned. …but I knew who busy the River God must be. All those people on the Yangtse River! Coolies hauling water. Women washing clothes. Houseboats swarming with old people and young, chickens and pigs. Big crooked-sailed junks with eyes painted on their prows so they could see where they were going…” Jean Fritz

Go back in your own work and follow these techniques used by these masters. Choose your words as carefully as a poet. Try your hand at adding repeated phrasing. Does this type of emphasis work for you and your work?

These suggestions are just a couple to look for when you model successful writers. You might also go back and find metaphors or similes, alliteration or assonance. Let the masters show you the way to your own success.

Mentor Monday: Where Are You? (Part Two)

A few weeks ago, I asked you to look at examples from some books that give the reader a good sense of place. I asked you to think about whether you were bringing your readers along when you described the places your characters inhabited. This time, I’d like to use the same three examples and ask you to do a short exercise.

The art of describing a scene requires a fine touch because you are not only telling your reader where your characters are, you are also eliciting a mood. You are often setting the tone of your book. Some writers think of the setting as something akin to an additional character. I feel the setting should be so strong that, in most instances, your story could not take place anywhere else. Would a Tin Man have worked as a character if Dorothy had remained on her Kansas farm? How would a Huckleberry Finn have fared in a 19th century Boston? Just thinking about those possibilities makes me feel a little mentally disjointed. Would I be able to suspend disbelief enough to get into such stories? I don’t know.

So this week’s activity is to re-read the entries I quoted from Laura Ingalls Wilder, Lois Lowry, and Jean Fritz. I chose these passages because each of them open the story. Each writer sets us firmly in the place where her story occurs. This time, however, instead of reading these entries to get a sense of place, read to get a sense of mood. Write down words describing how each passage makes you feel. Try to write 3 to 5 words per entry. Then, when you have completed the exercise, write a sentence or phrase that describes what each passage seems to promise you. In other words, where do you think the author will take you? Will the novel take you to place of comfort? A place of fear? A place of adventure? Try it now:

“Once upon a time, sixty years ago, a little girl lived in the Big Woods of Wisconsin, in a little gray house made of logs.
The great, dark trees of the Big Woods stood all around the house, and beyond them were other trees and beyond them were more trees. As far as a man could go to the north in a day, or a week, or a whole month, there was nothing but woods. There were no houses. There were no roads. There were no people. There were only trees and the wild animals who had their homes among them.” Laura Ingalls Wilder

This passage makes me feel:_______________________________________________

Ingalls will probably take me to a story about:___________________________________


“If, instead of a pencil, I held a brush in my hand, I would paint the scene: the scene of Autumn Street…and Grandfather’s house would loom huge, out of proportion, awesome and austere, with the clipped lawn as smooth and green as patchwork pockets on a velvet skirt. The rough pink brick of the sidewalk, bordered by elms, would wind the length of the street, past the Hoffman’s house, past the bright forsythia bushes that grew around the great-aunts’ front porch, past the homes of strangers and friends and forgotten people, finally disappearing where the woods began.
…I would blur the woods. I would blur them with a murky mixture of brown and green and black, the hueless shade that I know from my dreams to be the color of pain.” Lois Lowry

This passage makes me feel:_______________________________________________

Lowry will probably take me to a story about:__________________________________

“In my father’s study there was a large globe with all the countries of the world running around it. I could put my finger on the exact spot where I was and had been ever since I’d been born. And I was on the wrong side of the globe, I was in China in a city named Hankow, a dot on a crooked line that seemed to break the country right in two. The line was really the Yangtse River, but who would know by looking at a map what the Yangstse River really was?
“Orange-brown, muddy mustard-colored. And wide, wide, wide. With a river smell that was old and came all the way from the bottom. Sometimes old women knelt on the riverbank, begging the River God to return a son or grandson who may have drowned. …but I knew how busy the River God must be. All those people on the Yangtse River! Coolies hauling water. Women washing clothes. Houseboats swarming with old people and young, chickens and pigs. Big crooked-sailed junks with eyes painted on their prows so they could see where they were going…” Jean Fritz


This passage makes me feel:_______________________________________________

Fritz will probably take me to a story about:____________________________________


Tomorrow, we’ll look at these passages one final time to notice the techniques the writers use to elicit these emotions.

Poetry Friday--"November Night"

Photo by lapstrake
You've heard of the form cinquain. Do you know who created it? A woman named Adelaide Crapsey. Crapsey lived a short life of 36 years, from 1878 to 1914. Much of her writing deals with the subject of death, but this lovely cinquain can be read simply as a description of what happens at this time of year.

November Night

Listen...
With faint dry sound,
Like steps of passing ghosts,
The leaves, frost-crisp'd, break from the trees
And fall.


If you'd like to try a cinquain of your own, here are the simple "rules":

1. five lines
2. unrhymed
3. the first and fifth lines have 2 syllables; the second has 4, the third has 6, and the fourth has 8 syllables
4. usually with an iambic cadence

In elementary schools cinquain are often taught with this added element:

1. line one contains the subject name (noun)
2. line two is a description (adjective/s)
3. line three is actions (three words ending in "ing")
4. line four is additional description (a simple phrase)
5. line five is another name for the subject (noun)

Here's an example:

Rooster
noisy, nosey
strutting, flapping, crowing
boss of all the barnyard chickens
King Cluck
© Diane Mayr, all rights reserved

It's a good lesson on parts of speech, but it makes for a lousy poem!

Visit GottaBook for this week's Poetry Friday Round-Up.

Women of Wednesday--There Have Always Been Women Artists

I've profiled several artists for the "America's Notable Women" series. These women were able to create art despite social nonacceptance. It was not until the mid-twentieth century that they were able to make their way into the art world. They moved from "gentle ladies" who could paint china, or do needlepoint, to artists.

Nowadays gender makes no difference--art is what is made by an artist.

There have always been women artists, and lest we forget, here is a short video I found on YouTube. It shows the work created by women over hundreds of years.



Imagine how much richer the video would have been if all women who were so inclined had received the training, support, and the freedom to create that their male contemporaries received!

--Diane

Mentor Monday--What to Read Next?

If you're a writer of fiction, you must be a reader. You should read extensively in the particular genre (mystery, contemporary, speculative, fantasy, etc.) you wish to write in. But sometimes, you draw a blank. What to read next?

There are online places to go to for direction. All you need is the title and author of a book you've read and liked previously. You can look for either adult or children's books.

What Should I Read Next? is an easy to remember site! It's recommendations are based on those of other readers.

The Book Seer gathers its recommendations from Amazon and Library Thing. What I like about this site is the wise advice, "Of course, you could go ask your local bookshop or your local library."

At tastekid there is a definite "young adult" feel to the site. The search engine is named "Emmy" and is represented by a cute little Japanese manga character. Emmy suggests not only books, but also music and movies.

For the above three sites I used The Giver by Lois Lowry as my test. Not every suggestion made sense. Here are a few examples: Great Expectations by Charles Dickens, The Polar Express by Chris Van Allsburg, and The White Rose and the Swastika (Oxford Modern Playscripts) by Adrian Flynn.

Another place to look for suggestions is NoveList, an EBSCO product. Check your local public library to see if it offers this great database. One of its search options is "describe a plot." This can come in handy if you've read a book and can no longer remember the title, but you want to read something similar!

--Diane

Photo by Marco Bellucci

Poetry Friday: The Flu

Is anybody else having as many swine flu conversations as I seem to be having? I know several people who are struggling with whether or not to have their children immunized. I'd roll my sleeve up in a heartbeat if the vaccine became available. I'm too old for the nasal mist, and apparently there are not enough shots for even those folks whose health puts them at risk for great complications. I guess my only defenses are to keep washing my hands and then crossing my really clean fingers.

I'd like to offer The Flu by J. P. McEvoy for Poetry Friday. It rings as true today as it did when it was first published in 1919.

THE  FLU

by J. P.  McEvoy 

When your back is broke and your eyes are blurred.
And your shin-bones knock and your tongue is furred,
And your tonsils squeak and your hair gets dry,
And you’re doggone sure that you’re going to die,
But you’re skeered you won’t and afraid you will,
Just drag to bed and have your chill;
And pray the Lord to see you through
For you’ve got the Flu, boy,

You’ve got the Flu.

When your toes curl up and your belt goes flat,
And you’re twice as mean as a Thomas cat,
And life is a long and dismal curse,
And your food all tastes like a hard-boiled hearse,
When your lattice aches and your head’s abuzz
And nothing is as it ever was,
Here are my sad regrets to you,
You’ve got the Flu, boy,

You’ve got the Flu.

What is it like, this Spanish Flu?
Ask me, brother, for I’ve been through,
It is by Misery out of Despair,
It pulls your teeth and curls your hair,
It thins your blood and brays your bones
And fills your craw with moans and groans,
And sometimes, maybe, you get well —
Some call it Flu — I call it hell!

Today's Poetry Friday is being hosted by Elaine at Wild Rose Reader.

Rethinking the Pigeon

I was late coming to the Mo Willems appreciation party. Don't Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus! made me shake my head in the kids section of Barnes and Noble the first time I read it. I didn't get it. I understood that the pigeon, singularly focused on its ridiculous goal, represented a preschool-aged child. I knew the pleading, begging, bargaining, whining, foot-stomping, petulant pigeon was supposed to be funny, but I wasn't laughing. The bird left me cold.

I put the book back on the shelf and kept leafing through new titles. I didn't think of Don't Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus! again until it showed up in the pages of Scholastic's Firefly Books flyer one month. Since I buy any book recognized with a Caldecott that shows up in Firefly, I used my teacher reward points and ordered Don't Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus! I read it again when the book arrived, and my original opinion didn't change. If anything, I was maybe even a little bit more disgusted. Why, I wondered, did this book win a Caldecott Honor? It will only encourage this Willems fellow to continue polluting the picture book market.

I shelved the book and didn't give it much thought until this past Monday. One of my students brought a Mo Willems book for Sharing Day, which is kind of like Show and Tell. I hadn't read The Pigeon Wants a Puppy!, but based on my reaction to Don't Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus!, I wasn't expecting to like the book. Of course I was right. I didn't like it. I loved it. If I was handing out starred reviews, I'd have given it 5 stars.

How could this be? Have I no convictions? I don't like the pigeon. At least I didn't before. I'm a total fan now. Could it be because I think dogs are the best thing since white go-go boots, and if the pigeon likes dogs the pigeon must be okay?

I needed to see if this was a fluke. I pulled Don't Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus! off the shelf and reread it. Oh, my God! What a great book! And the bird is actually kind of charming. What happened? Why am I suddenly a Mo Willems groupie?

It took fourteen 4-year olds to open my eyes to the wonder of Willems. Instead of zipping through the text silently, I read the books out loud to my students. The kids were instantly engaged in both of Willems's books. They were actually dialoging with the pigeon. They were invested in not letting the pigeon drive the bus. They were pointing out the holes in the pigeon's arguments. Puppies don't play tennis, for Pete's sake!

When I finished reading each of the books, all fourteen kids called for an encore. So we read the books twice, and they were just as much fun to read the second time around. In fact, the kids want even more Mo, so I'm heading to the library right now to check out any other pigeon books that Willems fellow was encouraged to write when he won that Caldecott Honor.

Before I go up to the Harvey-Mitchell Memorial Library I have one piece of advice. Resist the urge to judge a picture book after a silent skim through the pages. These books are meant to be read aloud as surely as song lyrics are meant to be sung.