Tag: creative writing

Writer Interview: Me, Interviewed by a Former Student. Q&A.

  1. What got you interested in writing?

My earliest memory of enjoying writing is Ms. Campbell’s English class in 6th grade. One particular assignment was that she gave us a list of random words, and we had to write a short story that included each word. It has been 41 years, and I still smile when I remember that assignment. It was a challenge, and it inspired me. She is also the teacher who stirred my interest in reading. During 7th grade, under her tutelage, I ventured into “Wuthering Heights,” and the rest is history. Ms. Campbell was my English teacher in 6th, 7th, and 10th grades. She encouraged me. She pushed me. She challenged me.

  1. Was there a specific moment when you realized you wanted to become a writer, and when was that?

Although I dabbled in writing a never-seen-the-light-of-day book during high school, it wasn’t until I was deep into my Master’s in Creative Writing that I submitted a memoir piece about something that scared me as a child, which I did. When the teacher, Craig Schneider, handed it back, he said, “You should get this published in a horror magazine.” THAT is a moment I will never forget. Who? Me? Horror? Oh my. It turned out to be my first published piece.

  1. What have you done in your career as a writer?

In addition to teaching creative writing courses (Novel Writing, Introduction to Creative Writing, Poetry) and Composition courses, I enjoy writing on my blog. I have four published short stories (“The Devil’s Promenade,” “Full Moon,” “The Echo of Alone,” and “Mom in the Middle”), three novels, two of which are in current publication (“A Kiss in the Rain” and “The American Queen” – the third is “For Love of Words”), and two children’s books (“Not Real and Never Will Be” and “Giraffes are People, Too” with my daughter, Kennedy). This past year, I headed up the creation of a Writer’s Series that is housed in the TCC Library, in which I am blessed to interview authors, poets, publishers, and editors for TCC’s students. https://guides.library.tulsacc.edu/TCCwritersseries.

  1. What do you do currently in your writing career?

Teach creative writing. Write on my blog when I can. https://lenazyslife.home.blog/. I have been making notes for a memoir on recovery and survival, which I will accomplish with Stonebrook Publishing (hopefully) sometime in the next two to three years. I also challenge students to improve their creative writing, so I talk about writing daily! I stay affiliated with the Tulsa Nightwriters, though I don’t attend as regularly as I should.

  1. What is your favorite thing about writing?

Expressing my thoughts and feelings, they flow more smoothly through my fingers than they do my mouth. Unless I’m in front of a group of people, one-on-one talking ties my tongue; I’d rather have a keyboard and my fingers. I can write for others, and I can write for myself. It is an expression of what is deep inside me, either way.

  1. What are the things you don’t like about writing?

That my fingers move faster than my mind sometimes because I get excited, and my fingers fly, and the squiggle lines occur in abundance on the screen! But I’m okay with letting them sit there. I’ve learned to let go and let the fingers fly. However, there’s a part of me that wants to slow down and beat the timed typing test every time.

  1. What has been a challenge as a writer?

Initially, negative self-talk. Not thinking I had anything to say or to offer. Once I began my Master’s courses, peer review tested me and almost knocked me out of the game. I stuck it out, though, and I came to love peer review and workshopping. Understanding the vital necessity of critique to make the writing better. Through workshopping and peer review, I learned how to set my feelings aside and focus on making the writing its best.

  1. What surprised you most about this career?

I don’t write for a career, so I cannot necessarily speak to that, but as for teaching creative writing, it brings me joy! That doesn’t surprise me, though. What surprises me is that 17 years ago, I was a stay-at-home mom and had been for the 12 years before that. I’d forgotten that I had a mind and how to use it. Now, to see myself as an Assistant Professor, Career Faculty Fellow, and President-Elect of the Faculty Association at my school is a dream. Something completely unexpected.

  1. Any advice for someone considering a career in writing?

It’s not a quick way to wealth. That’s for sure. This is something we do for the love of writing and expression. This is something you do because you are passionate about it. You write whether you make money at it or not. In “On Writing,” Stephen King says he would write even if he didn’t make a dime at it because he is compelled to. I get that. I often feel compelled to write – like I have to write, or I will lose my mind. So … write … write so you don’t lose your mind. 

  1. What does a typical day as a writer look like?

This one does not apply to me as much; I write when and where I can.

  1. What does your writing process look like?

Before writing a larger work, I take notes on paper, getting to know my characters, giving them quirks, and dreaming up scenarios that might take them where I want them to go, although they’ll ultimately decide where they go on their own. When writing fiction, it is me and my laptop. I play instrumental music to match the mood of what needs to be written. When writing nonfiction, such as my blog, I write the piece in Word first, freewriting and then editing. Once completed, I copy and paste the piece into my blog. If I were to write a research paper, there is a whole other process that includes outlines and notecards, rough drafts, and peer reviews. So, the writing process is situation-dependent for me. Kind of hypocritical because I teach students one method for the writing process. But shhhhh.

  1. How do you think AI will affect the writing field, and what are your thoughts on AI?

AI “hallucinates,” is what my friend Adam the Librarian told me, and I’ve seen it in essays “written” by students. AI is easy to spot. It fabricates quotes and attributes them to sources that they are not from.  AI cannot write creatively. It cannot write conflict.  It steals your voice if you allow it to edit your writing; it words things how you, the writer, would never dream of wording your pieces. It’s not you. It cannot be you. What you, the writer, have to offer is far better, more creative, and imaginative. I allow AI to help me with grammar and punctuation from time to time, especially when I’m doing the flying fingers thing, though I keep my own voice and style; I give the AI suggestions the boot. How will it affect the writing field … sadly, it can take the place of artistic writing voices and replace them with lack of imagination and dullsville writing. I hope more writers will avoid AI than will choose to use it. I will continue to do my own writing – good and bad.

  1. Overall, do you think the internet has improved or worsened the writing field?

It has greatly improved opportunities for sharing your voice and publication; however, the field is oversaturated, which means that voices, if they get heard, don’t get much more than their 15 seconds of fame. It’s the same in music and art. We are oversaturated, and because of that, it isn’t easy to stand out. Push, though, don’t stop. Keep going because you love it. Write because you’re compelled to. I am not fully answering the question, so back on track … in the sense that there are more opportunities, this is a vast improvement. However, those same opportunities have saturated the writing field with overwhelming amounts of poor writing.

  1. Does location (the state you live in) matter when looking for jobs in writing?

I’m a college professor, not a full-time writer, so I’m making an educated guess, but I would think that states with large cities would offer more opportunities.

  1. Is writing a fairly flexible job, as far as having an independently made schedule, juggling a family, and other things in life?

It depends on what variation of writing you’re involved with. Are you a freelancer? Are you a blogger? Are you a reporter? The answer to this is also dependent on the person. Go-getter? Get-by-er? Personally, as a college professor, I have time for writing when it isn’t a day of nose-to-the-grindstone essay grading. My schedule is fairly flexible, allowing me to find moments here and there to pour out my thoughts on a keyboard. But speaking to writing as a job, again, that’s not something I can fully speak to.

  1. What is something most people don’t know about careers in writing?

That not everyone can be Stephen King. Each semester that I teach Novel Writing, students come with high expectations of publication and living that writer life, and then I give them writing assignments that have about half of them second-guessing their life choices. In my world, these are not challenging assignments, but for those who underestimate the amount of thought and planning that goes into even beginning the work, it can be daunting. Writing takes thought, planning, and determination. It takes the ability to push through, have thick skin, and care less. It takes understanding that editing is the magic and the work, and you cannot expect to write anything well right out of the gate. There is work involved. Also, people have no idea how much work a writer like Stephen King puts into the novels that decorate our shelves. He has a strict process, thick skin, and determination. He also has an author, who King says, will not let him be Stephen King.

  1. What are good skills to have as a writer?

Beyond skills, having an open mind, a creative and curious spirit, a love of language and communicating ideas, and determination are essential. As far as skills, at minimum a decent command of vocabulary and grammar/punctuation, plus the ability to use tools such as Hemingway Editor without letting it change your voice. Computer skills are imperative. The ability to use Word or Google Docs, or a desire to learn how to do it, and the stubbornness to figure it out for yourself. I had a ‘learn it or else’ attitude with myself, and it paid off when it came to formatting a manuscript, which I had had no prior knowledge of how to do. I am self-taught – that stubborn determination got me there. Also, and this is essential, the skill to participate in peer review—to accept feedback from others and be willing to edit your work, putting the benefit of the work above your feelings. My husband frequently says, “F*&^ your feelings,” and he’s not wrong.

  1. Can you describe writer’s block and how you deal with it?

Writer’s block, schmiter’s block. You have writer’s block? Write about it. Write about how it feels. Write about the frustration. Be raw in your description … let the anguish out. Say it all. Say things no one else will. We all have these pent-up irritations like “writer’s block,” so write it all out. Write about what it feels like to be blocked, to be stunted, to be held back, even by yourself … and then, once the “writer’s block” loosens, which it will, give all of that emotional gunk to one of your characters! Because, hey, characters need to get stuck in their thoughts, too. Use your “writer’s block” to push yourself to better descriptions and characters built out of authenticity that pours out of your own negative experience. Heck yeah. No more excuses. No more “writer’s block.”

  1. Are you working on any books or writing projects right now?

Yes. I have a lot of pre-work completed. Somewhere around 50,000 words of pre-work. That writing is a fictionalized account of my life story because, at the time I wrote it, it was too personal, and I needed to separate myself from it. So … fiction. Now, an intense year and a half of growth, open heart surgery, and healing has passed, and I have new eyes with which to view my own story. It has grown and changed in my heart, and it will now be more than a description of surviving abuse; it will now be a focus on recovery and living life to its fullest despite the past. I have notes. I have ideas. I’m constantly mulling it over, and I have a potential path toward publication. Timing is essential, and the day is just not right yet to get fully started on my memoir. I aim to achieve this feat within the next three years. Additionally, I have considered creating a writing textbook for my Comp II courses, which is also on the burner. Not necessarily the back burner, but it is behind the memoir.

Writing on my blog is a fairly regular occurrence, so that doesn’t fall in this answer/category. Every time I hear of a writing contest, my ears perk up, and I think, I could do that! And then, it’s time to grade papers ….

  1. Any advice or resources when narrowing down and deciding career paths?

Find what you’re passionate about and pursue that.

When you do what you love for a living, you never work a day.

Those are cliché sayings, but they’re true. I live them. Every day.

Continuous Writing – From “I Can’t” to “I Can”

“I can’t write,” “I hate to write,” “I’m not a good writer,” “I don’t know what to write,” “Writing is hard.” These are all phrases I hear from students and people out and about in the world I bumble around inside, especially when those folks discover my occupation. “Oh, you’re an English Professor; I better clean up the way I talk,” or “I’d do terrible in that class; I can’t write,” they say apologetically and with much insecurity. Without fail, I say, “Oh please, anyone can be a writer, and if you took my class, I’d prove it to you.”

Anyone can be a writer. I believe that. In “On Writing,” Stephen King said, “Take any noun, put it with any verb, and you have a sentence. It never fails. Rocks explode. Jane transmits. Mountains float.” Wa-la, you’re writing. At its core, it’s not that complicated. You have thoughts. Write them down. Do you have more thoughts? Write those down too. You have no thoughts? Write that down. Write whatever is in your head. Write about having nothing in your head. I’m getting ahead of myself. Most folks, when told it’s time to write, absolutely freeze. Freeze or internally weep. Our problem is that somewhere along the way, someone said something that caused you to feel inadequate. And that inadequacy turned into the lies we tell ourselves about ourselves in the form of “I can’t,” which becomes “I won’t.”

I address this in my classes by talking about Word Vomit. As I talk about letting whatever is in your mind and your heart flood the page, a baby spews on the presentation screen behind me. The visual “helps” the students get this idea of word vomit into their heads. Spill yourself onto the paper before you or the keyboard in front of you, whichever it is. They’ll never forget that baby! Chuck Wendig, a writer and blogger I enjoy, calls it, in his article “25 of My Personal Rules for Writing and Telling Stories,” “Bleeding on the Page.” When I discuss his angle on continuous writing with the students, there’s a bloody spill on the screen behind me; in his article, he says to cut yourself open and color your words with your heartsblood! Here, he says it best:

“Don’t write purely to escape pain and fear. Mine it. Extract those wretched little nuggets of hard black hate-coal and use them to fuel the writing of a scene, a chapter, maybe the whole goddamn book. Cut yourself open. Color the words with your heartsblood. I am an advocate of finding the things you fear and opening old wounds to let them splash onto the characters and inform the tale at hand. We’ll know. We’ll feel it, too. This is where your experience matters — it’s not necessarily in the nitty-gritty of mechanical experience but rather in the authenticity of your emotional life. And this is true for the opposite, as well — write about the things that thrill you, that stir hope, that deliver unto you paroxysms of tingly exultation. Be true to yourself and we’ll all grok your lingo, Daddy-O.”

Bleed on the page. Word Vomit. Imagery does wonders for belief. Any of us can pour ourselves out in freewriting—absolutely anyone. My friend, Dr. Douglas Price – the Director of Faculty Development and Global Learning at Tulsa Community College- has recently developed a tool for continuous writing that he and another friend of mine, Professor Amy Rains, are fine-tuning and collecting data on. They received a DaVinci Institute award for their work this past year. Since then, I have gleefully welcomed Dr. Price to my classrooms to share his insights and incredible tool, which assists students in continuous writing – and beyond that, continuous thought.

The practice is continuous writing, without stopping, just letting words and thoughts flow. If you get “stuck” in the writing, have a keyword to fall back on and write that word continuously until a new idea pops into your mind, which you will then write and keep going! Something I like to do is write about being stuck, if I get stuck. When I have had “writer’s block,” I’ve written about it—the feelings involved, the frustration, the despair … and then I have some golden, authentic emotions I can give to a character at another time. Writing our authentic internal thoughts is excellent for multiple reasons: it teaches us to keep going, it frees us to stop worrying about what others will think, it shakes us clear of concern about mistakes and editing. Just write. No stopping. Go. Go. Go. Get it out. Write without stopping; we practice this in freewriting, rough draft writing, journaling, anywhere you need to get words from your head onto a page.

Dr. Price visited my classrooms this week, and we, the students and I (because I love to participate along with them), practiced Dr. Price’s tool for continuous writing.  During this visit, he specifically had us focus on comparisons. Take two words that have nothing to do with one another and see where your mind takes you as you continuously write. No stopping, just writing, and if you get stuck, write about it, or use a keyword to repeat until a new thought appears.

What follows are my freewriting examples from our exercises. I’m pleased with the results, as were the students pleased with their own.  All of these students, who weeks ago, before my class, and the words from King, Wendig, and me, along with Dr. Price’s two visits to the classroom, used to say, “I can’t,” which meant, “I won’t.” Now … they can, and they have, and they will.

Nametag & Parachute

They found it on the ground, not far from the parachute. Her nametag. It lay in the mud, surrounded by remnants of this and that, things unmentionable due to the tragedy of the accident. The parachute had not opened … and she plummeted to her death. The newspaper would tell all the details, but for now, standing in the midst of it, the coroner just stared at the nametag. Chelsea. Her name was Chelsea Street. A young woman, it appeared. Probably full of life and laughter, excited to jump from a plane for the first time. Or maybe she was an expert and had done this many times, only this time, the chute did not open. Time would reveal that information to the CSI team, but the coroner’s job at this moment was to observe the body, so she took her attention from the nametag which was an embroidered piece of fabric that still semi-clung to the jacket that lay a few feet from where Chelsea’s body lay indented into the ground.

“Sandy, take a look at this,” said a young man crouched near the body. His name was Dan, and he was her newest assistant. Most didn’t stay with her long; she didn’t understand why, but she had come to accept the revolving door.

Sandy stepped closer to the body, and she looked down at the woman whose life had tragically ended that morning. How did this happen, Chelsea? Did the chute not open as it should? She waited and, before long, Chelsea spoke to her only in a voice no one could hear but her. “I didn’t open it.” The coroner heard the words, let them sink in a moment, and asked, “You did this on purpose?” Chelsea replied, “Yes.” And Sandy knew the CSI would find no flaws in the chute.

Snail & Dumpster

It was a long way to the top, but Herbert kept going. He knew the ‘promised land’ would await him once he reached the top. He had heard about the inside of the giant thing from some flies that he knew, though his parents told him not to associate with the flies. They were bad seeds, his dad said. But Herbie wanted to find out what was on the other side, or even better, on the inside of the giant thing. One of the flies had called it a dumpster; Herbie had seen it plenty of times but never knew its name. It was unmentionable. Something his parents ignored, even though it was larger than life.

Stick to the rocks. Stick to the shoreline. Don’t go on the concrete. Don’t go where the people go. Stay safe. Herbie didn’t want to play it safely. He tried to “LIVE.” You know, like the flies. He wished he had wings instead of this shell. Being a snail restrained him. He didn’t like carrying around the weight of his room all day, every day. He wanted to sprout wings and be a fly, though he heard that snails lived longer than flies, so there was that. But heck, even in their short lives, they got to see things that snails never did … and so, that morning, Herbert had kissed his mother and told her he was going to snail school, only he didn’t go. He made his way to the concrete and slowly took his first slide onto the hard surface, not knowing how it would feel. It wasn’t so bad, so he kept going, and before long, though the sun had fully changed positions, he looked up and saw the giant dumpster before him. It was even bigger up close, and his heart swelled with excitement. At the top, he saw flies flying around, doing what they do, and he tried calling out, “Hey, guys! Hey, flies!” But no one heard him, so he found a spot where he could begin his climb, and Herbie began edging upward. So far. At some point, a fly noticed him and whizzed past him …

Cauliflower & Guitar

He strummed the guitar no more than five feet from me. The music was soft, and I was sleepy. I needed to wake up. Something, anything. And then, my food arrived. So grateful for something to do – you know, feed my face. And … there was cauliflower on my plate next to my steak. I did not order cauliflower. Gross. It’s one of the nastiest substances on this planet; I will not eat it. But I don’t want to cause a scene. This place is quiet except for the lullaby floating around in the space from that man’s infernal guitar. He plays on and on, and I think this concert is for senior citizens.

Looking around, no, there aren’t any of those here, but I seem to be the only person squirming in my seat because the music is so dull! My husband seems content with the food on his plate. His steak and broccoli sit there ready to become one with him, as they usually do when he orders them. It’s a routine, and he is happy. But they gave me cauliflower. Ugh. I can’t eat it anyway – even if I wanted to. Which I don’t. So … what to do with it? Everyone is distracted here. No one is paying attention to me. I wonder … I could break the cauliflower into little pieces and try to toss it inside the guitar. He’s only 5 feet away … I bet I could make it. I’m a basketball player after all. Naturally, I will think of making a basket!

Boat & Cello

My favorite piece of music is “The River Flows in You” – especially when done by Hauser, a member of the group 2 Cellos. His video for “The River Flowers in You” is filmed in a boat on a river, and he beautifully plays the melody on his cello. It is mournful, almost, and the setting sweeps me into emotional flow every time I hear it. It seeps into every fiber of my being, and I am on that river, not with Hauser, but alone … I am there, and I am sad, and I am content. I am hopeful, and I am relaxed, and I am mourning … so many things all wrapped up as the music soars through me and the water gently moves me along. They work in tandem with one another – I lie back in the boat and float on a sea of emotion, but gentle emotion, taking me to a place of serenity where I can be open and free and not have worries or concerns. It is a release, and I long for that at all times. I will play “The River Flows in You” with intent from time to time because I need that music. I need that song … in cello, and I remember the river. I am in that boat, and Hauser plays the melody, and I drift … drifting, drifting … ever down the river of emotion but gentle emotion, soft and sweet, though a tint of mournfulness because Life is serious … Life is to be lived and we are to rest and we are to exult and we are to be in the moment, and in this moment, I am all of those things. I want to be in this boat …

Curtain & Trees

She pulled back the curtains to let in the day.  The morning light spilled in and lit the room. Her eyes adjusted, and she flipped the latch to unlock the window. She heaved because the window was heavy and opened it, allowing the fresh morning air to rush into her bedroom. Ahhhhhh. The morning. There is nothing like morning. Nothing smells like morning. Especially here in the mountains. She smiled and looked out of the window at the forest surrounding her cabin. The mountain rose in the distance beyond the trees, and a few hawks circled above it all. She wanted to be nowhere but right here. A day lay ahead of her where she would play in the sunshine, wander through the trees, explore the base of the mountain, and perhaps skip rocks on the river. No pressure. No worries. No concerns. No sounds just birds, water trickling, and a car’s tires on gravel … Wait, that’s not the sound she should hear. The sound grew louder, and a car came into view – coming down the gravel drive set between dark rows of trees that overhung the simple road. It was her grandfather’s truck, and she wasn’t ready for his bellowing. Maybe she could pretend to be asleep. He’d get what he needed and leave. She pulled the curtains closed a bit and hid behind one of them, hoping he hadn’t seen her in the window. She was not in the mood to listen to any of his stories or help him hunt for this or for that that he left in the kitchen or the garage. It was always something. At those thoughts, she chided herself. He meant well. He always meant well. It wasn’t his fault that he had no volume level other than loud. Bless his heart. He’s hard of hearing … she pulled herself together, slipped on her flip-flops …

Mirror & Trains

She glanced in the mirror and adjusted her hair. A few strands were loosened from the wind outside near the train stop. She wanted to be presentable. No, she needed to be presentable. It has been two years since she last saw him. How has time flown like that? It is cruel, time. She saw the lines in her face were deeper, and she hoped he wouldn’t notice. She hoped that when he saw her, his eyes would light up and time would disappear. She kept looking at herself in the mirror and wondered how life had brought them to this space – to be so distant but love so hard. It was also cruel. Life. The mirror. All of it. He had to take a train. Trains make so many stops, and the time stretches far beyond what a plane ride would take.  Even what a car would produce. And so, it was the train, and time is cruel. She wiped a piece of loose mascara from near her eye and took a deep breath. Two years.  Okay.  You can do this. Her heart raced. Her hands were a bundle of nerves. She hoped he was just as anxious to see her, but she also didn’t wish feeling this anxiety on him, hoping he was happy and on an adventure. Who knows what they would do with their time? She hadn’t made a plan. She wanted whatever time they had together to be spontaneous. She left the restroom and made her way to the train platform outside, again in the wind, and the strands of hair she had corrected chose their own freedom and flew with wild abandonment in the air. The train whistle sounded, and she stared down the track … hoping this was his train!  But another train whizzed past. Not stopping. Ah, the anxiety. And then, another train came into view … and she prayed this was the one. It was time. It was time, ten minutes ago, but that time is cruel … and so, she waited. She watched, and the train came to a stop. Passengers filed off, and she strained to see him.  Desperate to see him, but he wasn’t there. Where was he? Person after person filed past her, and her heart sank. Maybe he had decided not to come. He didn’t want to see her after all. Her hopes dashed, but she understood. She understood that he hadn’t desired to prioritize her in his life after she had left all those years ago.

Why would he? She understood. She crossed her arms, rubbed her hands against her skin, and sighed. Deeply.  No one else remained to come off the train, and she turned to walk back into the sanctuary of the bustling train station, where she could disappear into the people and not be noticed in her sorrow and shame. Out in the air, on the platform, she felt a neon sign flashing above her saying, “Look at that mother who left her son years ago! She doesn’t deserve his love!” But you don’t know my story, she wanted to shout back at the sign and the people and the air.

Accept Critique or Decorate Your Refrigerator

Just completed filming a new author interview – with novelist and OU Professor Rilla Askew and TCC Professor Kyle Hays. This one is TCC official, and I am excited about it. One thing Rilla shared that I feel compelled to share with you now is this … She shared something she heard regarding not accepting critique well. This is especially to those among us who believe their work does not stink or is perfect. The words stuck with Rilla, as I am sure they will with me, and now with you …

If you do not want to accept critique as a writer or artist, “go be talented in your room.”

Ouch, right?

It should not be ‘ouch.’ Artistry in its various forms is communal. Sure, as writers, you write the first draft alone, but every stage beyond that should be with peer eyes on your work. They will invariably see mistakes you cannot, do not, and will not. As writers and artists, we must develop thick skin. We must be willing to be laid bare, vulnerable, and open to growth. We must lay our work out as a sacrifice to the opinions of others in our field. Listen to them. Be willing to consider their ideas. Admit you cannot see your own errors much of the time …

Or … don’t, and “go put it on the fridge with the other macaroni art” (Kyle Hays).

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Sidenote: Professor Hays and I will film 6 author interviews for TCC (Tulsa Community College) this school year, which will be housed in the TCC Archives and made available to TCC students and the public later this year. The 2024-2025 school year interviews are:

  • Josh Wann – Poet, Short Story/Play/Comedy Writer, TCC Adjunct Professor
  • John Andrews – OSU Honors and Creative Writing Professor, Author, Poet
  • Dinah Cox – OSU Creative Writing Professor, Poet
  • Joshua Danker-Dake – Editor, Science-Fiction Author
  • Nancy Erickson – Owner of Stonebrook Publishing – St. Louis, Owner of “The Book Professor,” – Focus on Non-Fiction writing
  • Rilla Askew – OU Creative Writing Professor, Author – Historical Fiction, Short Story Writer

“Hair As Silver As the Moon” … And Other Comments Regarding Comp II

“My Soul” – written by a Comp II student – Spring 2024

I always found it difficult to understand people who were so enthralled in their passion because I could not relate. Passion was not exactly something that came easy to me, and I wasn’t too keen on looking for it in places unfamiliar. However, I had a passion for words and reading and writing once upon a time. It was a proper escape from reality that introduced me to fantasies and worlds unknown where the only limit was my imagination—the power the words could hold and the impact they could bring was a fascinating thing. Yet, the older I grew, the more detached I became from these wondrous stories. The world seemed to lose its color, and the magic of words no longer seemed to impact me. The voices on a page no longer came to life, and my pen no longer sang when I put it against paper. It was as if I was beginning to lose my passion for the things that made me human.

When I walked into the classroom of yet another composition class, I was greeted by my professor, hair as silver as the moon, and an energetic smile that seemed to fill the entire room. I hadn’t had much hope of becoming a strong writer since the first assignment. I was surprised at my grade. I knew I wasn’t a very adept writer, but my grade was lower than expected. To think I had gotten even something as fundamental as the formatting incorrect, “Remove space after paragraph” (Cunningham), my professor wrote. It stung. I was aware of my shortcomings as a writer and seeing it up close felt severely demotivating.

As the weeks went by, I found myself feeling lost in my abilities and drifting farther and farther away from the world of spoken and written. I was surprised at my weaknesses and the thought that the professor had about how I already knew how to formulate an argument because I can converse with people eluded me, and her outlook on writing and arguing clashed with my preconceived notions of communication. The more she spoke, the more enthralled I found myself in the words of my instructor, and I became absorbed once again in the magical world of writing.

The writing process was something I never followed religiously because I just had my way of doing things. I had always absorbed knowledge like a sponge, and I never found it difficult to grasp new concepts and ideas and put them into action. Without knowing the hardship of struggle, I was unable to break through my plateaus as a scholar and truly challenge myself. I became complacent, and it was later reflected in my writing. Now that I’m in college, I’m hitting steeper and steeper walls, and it’s becoming gradually more difficult to pick myself up. Because I had never known struggle early on, I never learned how to learn. I didn’t know what made a good writer. I never received proper criticism for my work until I walked into that classroom.

The lessons were difficult to follow, but as if my professor seemed to understand me, she gradually conditioned me to enjoy writing with the short stories we would read. My preconceived notion that there was little room for learning when reading fiction was completely shattered, and I was taught how to research effectively. My professor made me understand argumentative communication on a deeper level. She said, “We use argument every day. If you know how to talk, you know how to argue” (Cunningham). Although I felt weak as a writer, I felt myself slowly becoming obsessed with bringing my thoughts to life on a page.

Communication is an art, at least my professor stressed it to be. She emphasized the importance of communicating and the skills that followed in arguments. It was as if the body and mind would move as one. Thoughts would connect actions, and actions would connect words to exchange information effectively. She stressed the importance of finding reason in between the words of what is being said. To this, she said, “Once you find the ‘Why’- then, communication can begin. Then, a true argument can occur. But not until then” (Cunningham). It was eye-opening for me, almost like a lightbulb going off in my head.

Within the next weeks, I tried to fully apply myself and really, truly engage in classroom discussions, activities, and exchanges, almost like a child eager to play with his new toys. I tried my best to follow her advice, and the task of writing became less daunting to me. The concept of “if you can speak, you can argue” seemed so simple, yet it was exactly what I needed to break through the mindset that writing was difficult. It took me aback. When I was in high school, my opera director sought to put me at ease, seeing as I had difficulty easing the tension in my throat when I sang. He was professional and precise, like a surgeon of the voice. His voice echoed in the grand auditorium during one of our rehearsal sessions, “You sing like you know you’re going to fail. You’re a strong speaker. Why not sing with that same authority?” (Alvear). I had a breakthrough. Writing and communication, just like music, is an art. And it is through the exchange of information that we can truly connect.

The short stories that we read in class, I think, were one of my favorite reasons for coming to class. I enjoyed hearing everyone’s opinions, and the open discussions that followed were extremely productive. It took a little bit of getting comfortable with speaking to new people, but once I got into it, words, thoughts, and conversations seemed to spark. I was unaware at the time, but those conversations over those short stories assisted us students in honing our communication skills.

A certain thought-provoking story sparked a lasting discussion that seared itself in my mind. The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas. It’s a short story by Ursula K. Le Guin about a utilitarian utopia that criticized the power of the state and capitalism. It brought such fiery conversations among my peers, and it became a popular essay topic within the class. The sense of unease within the class after reading the short story was tangible, and hearing everyone’s thoughts was like music. Through effective communication, I was able to better understand my classmates. Through effective communication, I was able to build lasting connections with scholars I could proudly call my friends.

It takes a certain courage to fully immerse yourself in a passion, to focus on the beautiful self-indulgence of the mind foolishly and wholeheartedly. I thought that to be a strong writer, one must constantly throw themselves toward the pages. Writing, writing, and more writing. But I was wrong. My professor taught me more than just writing. I was taught that to be a good producer of writing, one must also be a good consumer of it. One must learn to understand and digest not just the words on the page but the hidden meaning and intent of the author delivering it, “the A.I.M” (Cunningham), my professor would say. Communication is a two-way street. Being talked at is not communicating, and vice versa. I was too weak to understand at first that her critique was for my good. I don’t think I would have had such a positive experience had I learned from a different instructor. There’s a fear in me that had I not learned from this professor, my love and passion for writing, for art, for music, for my soul would have withered and died. I am forever grateful for such a wonderful experience.

Emotions felt more and more difficult for me to feel as the days went on. Everything started to feel the same, nothing new, nothing to look forward to, and nothing waiting for me when I finished with my day. My world was a morbid lens of monochrome, and the things that once enraptured me soon slowly began to chip away at my sanity. Every. Single. Day. Became monotonous, and I slowly felt myself slipping away from the things that made me human. No music could soothe my soul. No words could ease my anxiety. The only thing keeping me together was my school routine. I dreaded coming to class, yet my professor would greet me every day with a smile. As abrasive as I am, I didn’t want to admit at the time that that class had grown on me. Everyone showed concern for me whenever I didn’t show up. Everyone asked how I was doing. I was met with “good mornings” and several other greetings. For the first time in a long time, I felt warmth. I felt at home.

This semester has been a test for me, and not just my patience, but my growth as a person especially. There were many trials and tribulations that I had to conquer, and mindlessly going about my day like a husk of a man wasn’t getting me anywhere. The passion that I had for reading, writing, music, and art that I thought had been snuffed out long ago had been rekindled by such a radiant atmosphere. I truly felt at home there. I didn’t want to leave. Most days, I would have been completely fine with just existing and being around everyone. This isn’t even about the assignment anymore. I just cannot contain my emotions as I type this out.

For someone who was a loner and weak, I was shown kindness and warmth by the people around me, and for that, I am forever thankful. I understand that I have strayed severely from the topic of this assignment. I understand that what I am doing could be punishable by the docking of points. But why must I limit my emotions any longer? I don’t want to hold myself back from the things I want to feel and the things I want to say. I want to thank you so much for being there for me. I want to thank you so much for trying to understand me as a person. Without you, I don’t think I could have picked myself back up. You taught me more than just writing skills, more than just communication skills. You taught me how to love myself again and to strive to be better. Mrs. Cunningham, thank you for everything.

Works Cited

Alvear, Joe. Opera Rehearsal Session. March 2021

Cunningham, Dacia. “Essay #1 – Details are Important.” ENGL1213, 8 February 2024, Tulsa Community College

Cunningham, Dacia. “Defining Argument And The Most Dangerous Game.” ENGL1213, 20 January 2024, Tulsa Community College

Cunningham, Dacia. “Writing Tips And Tricks.” ENGL 1213, 11 December 2023, Tulsa Community College

“A Kiss in the Rain” Lives On?

In prepping my “Novel Writing” course, I came across a discussion prompt where my students must share 3 possible story ideas, and they must give a synopsis of each story. My mind leaped back to a phone conversation I’d had with my cousin, Linda, yesterday evening. Linda read my novel, “A Kiss in the Rain,” and she said there were several characters she wanted to know more about. I laughed – not at her – but because she is not the first person to request stories about some of the other characters in that novel! I’m taking that to mean that they were written well. Pretty cool, really. And as I, in the present moment, read through the discussion prompt for my students, three different storylines came to me as potential storylines for other characters from “A Kiss in the Rain.” Nice! I’m excited!

I’d love your thoughts. Which might you like to read?

1. . John and Victoria Clark’s life together began like a fairytale, rubbing elbows with high society in their town, living vicariously through their daughter Daphne and her accomplishments, and their names on the top lists of charities across the state. They’re proud people. Wealthy people. Until Daphne’s teenage impulsive actions bring ‘shame’ upon the family – at this, the family unravels, the facade of their lives crumbles, and John finds himself in prison – with Victoria on the edge of filing for divorce. When a once-so-perfect life crashes to the ground, is there hope, or are they destined to live in the murky shadow of scandal?

A title might be … “The Judge’s Choice.”

2. She graced the cover of magazines from coast to coast. Journalists clamored to interview her. Senators and politicians wooed her. Adeline was the doll of the stage – a hit on Broadway and in the hearts of men.  One, a wealthy bank owner, asked her to be his wife and offered her everything she could ever desire … except George, the man her heart loved.  He was poor, a stagehand. He could offer her nothing more than his heart … and she chose wealth. Life for Adeline would never be the same – whisked away from the man she loved – she tried to fit into her new role as a socialite wife … and mother.  Until everything fell apart – and she was left with no one … and no forgiveness for herself.  Throughout the remainder of her life, she tried to stay off the radar, doing for others as she could but not for herself. And George never left her heart or her side – the stagehand with nothing but love to give – but could it ever be right to hope to right all over her wrongs to him? To her husband? To her child?

This would be titled (possibly) … “The Lady in Red.”

3. Jacqueline’s twin sister Victoria had it all. She was beautiful, vivacious, outgoing, and smart. She could roll out of bed and look like Barbie on parade. From an early age, Jacqueline resented Victoria. Jacqueline’s own hair hung straight as a board, her make-up – when she tried to apply it – ran and made her look goth – no matter what she tried. Her shoulders slumped, and she preferred books over people. Where Victoria shined, Jacqueline stayed in her shadow – invisible … until she ran out of gas one night after work at the Piggly Wiggly. Mad at her luck, she was kicking her front passenger tire when a 63′ Chevy pickup pulled up alongside her, and the driver said, “Tire piss you off?” Then, he laughed – and the music of his laugh entranced Jacqueline. Before she knew it, she married that man named Carl and found herself living with him, a man who would do anything for her, in a rundown old farmhouse while her sister when off to college and married a man who would become a Judge. She envied Victoria, hated Victoria, and she obsessed over everything Victoria had and did. Nothing ever seemed to go right for Jacqueline … and then, her mother died, leaving her to care for her niece and her niece’s child because they lived in her mother’s house. When she saw Daphne, she saw Victoria … and Carl gave her an ultimatum. Jacqueline finds herself at a crossroads of choice. Will she run off the only person who has ever given a damn about her, or will she, in her 50s, find a way to let go of the past. Carl has one foot out the door …

A title for this could be … “A Life Not Lived”

Now that I’ve written these out … I’m really excited about them all! I’d love your thoughts, especially if you’ve read “A Kiss in the Rain.”

If you have additional ideas or characters you want more about, let me know! Like Alice, perhaps. Or Brian? Definitely Robert and Lynne … so many characters! LOL.

Help!

Author Conversations Collection!

It occurred to me a few weeks ago that my novel writing course could benefit from insights other than my own and the assigned textbooks – which are “On Writing” by Stephen King, “Structuring Your Novel” by K.M. Weiland, and “No Plot No Problem” by Chris Baty. We have reached the point in the semester where my voice is no longer the new professor’s voice but more akin to the nagging mom who gets half-listened to … I say this tongue-in-cheek, but at the same time, I know it’s true. They get comfortable, and life distracts them from focusing on the course when things become routine. Now, I’m not much for routine, and I was thinking – how do I keep this class moving and spice it up, make it enticing and challenging both … tap your resources, came the reply inside my head.

My thoughts turned to my colleagues and author friends in St. Louis, and I got excited. I reached out to several and scheduled a couple of author interviews, which I am calling “author conversations” because once talk of writing begins between writers, the ‘interviews’ become fluid, unstructured, and wonderful. I have three more St. Louis-based author interviews in the works, but I also decided to see who I could drum up in Tulsa – and I reached out to the Tulsa Nightwriters writing group. The response has been incredible! Thus far, I have collected 7 “author conversations” and have 2 more scheduled to be posted to my Novel Writing course shell and Youtube. There looks to be a total of 10 of these author conversations collected by the end of the semester! How exciting!

Author conversations posted to Youtube thus far include:

Each of these conversations is informative and entertaining. Topics cover a broad range of writing topics from the writing process to publishing ins and outs. Lots of talk about editing and character development, writing groups, and the necessity of critique. Some are Pantsers, and some are Plotters. And all love the craft of writing – all have passion for their stories and for their readers … It is about influencing and engaging the reader and fulfilling a driving need that we, as writers, have to create.

We invite you to give each author’s conversation a listen – there are nuggets of advice for every writer at all stages of writing. I cannot just keep these for my students – writing is for everyone!

Let Me Display Myself Between The Covers of a Book – I Wrote That

Written on May 15, 2015

Did I seriously write this most amazing quote yesterday evening? Blown away,

Lying here in my bed, I read back through last evenings post, The Hardest Part of Being an Author is …

And I found this:

Oh, let me write and speak less. Let me display myself between the covers of a book and hide therein where you may know me, but not enough.

Amen. And … Wow.

Words and I are Friends

Written on November 1, 2015
The subtitle – “Freeing Your Life With Words” caught my attention at the teacher’s store while I perused the clearance section – PoemCrazy by Susan Goldsmith Wooldridge. Freeing my life with words?  Yes, please.  I love words. Words are life.  Combinations and platters of words – I find myself caught up in them, tasting them, enjoying them, sharing them with folks who blankly stare back at me wondering at my level of sanity. That’s okay. Words and I are friends and I don’t need a whole lot of others.  Words and I do just fine.  Written words … most of the time. So I bought it – let’s free me.
Written word is my vehicle. Only with a microphone in hand am I any good at oral expression – odd that it requires an audience for the flow of words in my mind to roll forth unencumbered by second-guessing. Perhaps it is in a speech environment where there is no time for editing that that function of my brain sleeps and words fall from my lips as if dripping from a pen or fingertips to a keyboard. Written word. Words. Beautiful, powerful, expressive words dolled up language strewn together for telling all about a thing or all about you or about me.

Full Moon Me is the chapter my classes travel through with me in English Composition I … reason being … in Susan’s words, “We have to start with ourselves before we can reach beyond ourselves.  And whatever our intention, the way we see and write about the world always reveals who we are.” How we write, what we write about … reveals self. In the classroom, the lesson that to write well, you begin with you is essential. Mine, dig, ask yourself who you are and write it. Let the words go. Discover what you believe and how you move through the words you choose … “we can make discoveries when we put our feelings about ourselves into words,” says my friend-though-she-doesn’t-know-it Susan.

The practice she poses for workshop sessions, for classroom experience, is a collection of words … to put to paper the words that first come to mind at the questions I will post here below with my own answers attached.

If I were a color, what color would I be? Navy blue – deep, dark, cool

What shape would I be? something complicated – a pretzel.

If I were a movement, what movement would I be? ocean water – crashing, then rolling, always changing, never the same

What sound? Wind in autumn trees

What animal? An elephant – graceful and imposing

What song? Total Eclipse of the heart … goes with navy I think …

What number? twenty-three- favorite – birthday number

What car? my 1985 Nissan Maxima … she was me; I was her.

What piece of furniture? comfy armchair facing an open window

What food? enchilada smothered in white cheese

What musical instrument? electric guitar

What place? Mountain lake with pine trees all around

What element in nature? snow … falling unique and cold wherever it wants

What kind of tree? Sycamore with its peeling bark

What’s something I’m afraid of? Losing myself inside myself

What’s the word hiding behind my eyes? anxiety

And then … to write about you using the answers above – only add in action verbs that describe you as well … laugh, hide, tease, play, hold …   Adjectives … emotional, silent, silly, warm, hopeful.

Combining them all beginning with “I am …” and not to use it all, but some … certain parts … those that sing to me in this moment …

I am a laughing Sycamore

standing tall against the navy sky

hiding oceans of anxiety – crashing, churning

inside myself

emotional, hopeful, ever stretching to an open window

where i see joy

Me, today.  In words.  How about you?  What might your “I am” become? Let words show you yourself as I see my very soul here in these words and you may not understand or see, but I do.  And I know.  Words.  They are my friends.   Thank you, Susan, for this tool … each time, something new.

This week, my students will write their “I am” poem – Wednesday evening, I await you with eagerness.

Where the Author Hides

There’s something about Elle King’s lyric “What do you want from me? I’m not America’s Sweetheart.” It resonates with me … except for the bad tattoos part. At least yet. I have the tattoos in my mind … dark ones of blackbirds and the silhouettes of Catherine and Heathcliff standing apart from one another – eternally besotted but ever apart … with “Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine they are the same” scrolled across my skin. Gothic tattoos – gargoyles, scrollwork, heart-wrenching. Surprised? Don’t be. My internal self lies hidden in imaginary worlds – it creeps into words scrawled on the pages of my writings.  In those places – I break hearts, swear, dress to kill, and laugh because “you love me anyway.” Not the main character, but the supporting players – the ones to tease the story, push it forward, drive the reader bat-crazy – “oh, no she didn’t” responses. That one. Yes, that one … I know her. I write her because she is me … Jackie. Morrison. Veronica.

The lines between fiction and reality blur for me and I find myself caught, not recognizing myself, spinning and wondering who am I today … what is real? Stories fill my mind. The characters talk to me … we share secrets and they laugh when I tell them what I’d do if I were them … Wait, oh, that’s right.

In “A Kiss in the Rain” I toyed with the character of Jackie. I knit her together to be nasty. Mean. Walking wounded and wearing it on her sleeve. She cuts to the quick with her tongue.  Drives her husband to distraction, though he won’t leave her. He knows what no one else sees – the woman inside.  That she holds the past for security. Afraid to let anyone close. Wants no more pain. He knows her heart holds great capacity for love.

Morrison. Oh, Morrison. In “For Love of Words,” she is my exploration into a freed me – a me allowed by me to be me. Long crazy hair, flowy dresses, poetry written on walls, crazy talking to plants, surrounding herself in beauty – creating a world of fantasy and reveling in it. Loving a man – but kept from him by her own pride and insecurities – carrying that weight with her … using her angst to propel those in her life to beautiful things.  Oh, Morrison.

Tossed Veronica at the reader in “The American Queen.”  Buxom bombshell – outrageous flirt … have no idea where the flirtatious characteristics came from (insert a wink here, along with a raised eyebrow).  She’s ruthless. Takes what she wants – and that’s everything. Ambitious. Determined. Strong. But is she really? I’m leaving it there because her story is not done.

It’s not always in the main character where the author hides.