Dan Jorgensen's Blog, page 53
December 27, 2024
A Writer's Moment: 'All beginnings . . . never any endings'
'All beginnings . . . never any endings'
“You become a reader by reading theliterature, not by reading the handbooks about it.” –Aidan Chambers
Born in England on this date in1934, Chambers won both the British Carnegie Medal and the American PrintzAward for his wonderful Postcards from No Man's Land (1999). Andfor his "lasting contribution to children's literature" he won thebiennial, international Hans Christian Andersen Award in 2002.
First a teacher and an AnglicanPriest, Chambers left both teaching and the priesthood to concentrate onwriting, lecturing, and editing in the late 1960s.
Gaining a reputation forstraightforward writing that treats young readers with the understanding thatthey can comprehend the same difficult world and ideas that adults deal with, healso wrote several books for teachers and librarians on the topic,including The Reading Environment and Tell Me:Children, Reading and Talk.
Encouraging young readers to becomeyoung writers, he noted, “When you are in your teenage years you areconsciously experiencing everything for the first time. So adolescent stories are allbeginnings. There are never any endings.”
December 26, 2024
A Writer's Moment: 'The adult version of a kid creating'
'The adult version of a kid creating'
“Beinga novelist is the adult version of a kid creating a make-believe world. Butunlike a child, a writer of fiction has to come up with a structured story, onethat has as much meaning for others as it has for her.” – Susan Isaacs
Bornin New York City on Dec. 27, 1943, Isaacs began her writing career as afreelance political speechwriter while simultaneously serving as an editorfor Seventeen magazine. In her mid-30s she decidedto veer away from journalism and speechwriting and try her hand atfiction. Good move. Her first novel (and first attempt atfiction), Compromising Positions, was chosen as a main selection ofthe Book of the Month Club and was a New York Times bestseller.
Sincethen she’s authored 17more books – her latest being 2023’s Bad, Bad SeymourBrown – numerous essays, screenplays, and a work of culturalcriticism, Brave Dames and Wimpettes: What Women are Really Doing onPage and Screen.
Inaddition to writing books and screenplays, Isaacs is a noted reviewer having reviewed both fiction andnonfiction for The New York Times, the Los Angeles Times, TheWashington Post, and Newsday.
But writing is her forte' and she said she loves the writing process. “Thereare days where I lose track of time, of place, of everything else because I'vebeen transported to another universe. “
December 24, 2024
The story behind a 'magical' Christmas tale
“’Twas the night before Christmasand all through the house . . .”– Clement Clarke Moore
Moore was a straitlaced,no-nonsense Classics Professor at New York’s General Theological Seminary whenhe composed A Visit from St. Nicholas for his kids after aChristmas Eve sleighride in 1822. Arguably, the lilting tale of Santa Claus hasbecome one of the best-known verses ever written by an American.
The scholarly Moore, born in NewYork City in 1779, was at first hesitant to publicly acknowledge hisassociation with such an “unscholarly” verse (he published it in 1823 butdidn’t publicly acknowledge his authorship until 1837). But his kids – for whom he had composed thepiece in the first place – were proud of their father’s tale and wantedchildren everywhere to know who to thank for creating it.
Moore’s poem is widely considered thebasis for depicting Santa Claus as we know him today – including his physicalappearance, mode of transportation, number and names of his reindeer, and thetradition that he brings toys to children.
By the way, before he was moved bythe spirit of the season to pen his famous poem, Moore’s most notable work wasa two-volume tome titled A Compendious Lexicon of the Hebrew Language. Christmasmiracles indeed.
“Happy Christmas to all, and to alla good-night!”
A Writer's Moment: The story behind a 'magical' Christmas tale
December 23, 2024
A Writer's Moment: The Christmas Medals
The Christmas Medals
This Christmas remembrance waspublished in the current issue of South Dakota Magazine. I enjoyed writing it and hope you enjoy ittoo. – Dan Jorgensen
The Christmas Medals
Dean Jorgensen was not mybiological father, but he was my Dad in the truest sense. That was cemented thefirst Christmas he shared with my two younger brothers and me. We three boyswere Mom’s from a first marriage; ultimately there would be seven boys in ournew blended family. For Dean, all seven were “his boys.”
Ourfirst Christmas together was in 1955. Dean and my mother Virginia had marriedafter a courtship that seemed to include us boys as much as the two of them.
Whenhe came to our little home to pick up Mom for dates, he would be greeted byjoyous shouts of “Dean! Dean!” because we were as taken with him as was ourmother. Often, while waiting for her, he would share stories with us, someabout superheroes he named Starkhans and Johhny. Other stories were about hischildhood, or his Army days.
Aftertheir marriage at the beginning of the year and our move to Dean’s farm, thoseArmy stories included tales about medals and military insignia that hetreasured from his time in service. Each medal had a story. Mom often imploredus to “leave poor Dean alone,” especially after a hard day of farm chores orfieldwork. But regardless of how tired he might be, he would share them.
Asour first “family” Christmas approached, we also were excited that Mom washaving a baby. Our new brother or sister might even be born on Christmas!
Momwent into labor on December 23, and we all raced to the hospital 50 miles awaywhere our brother was born. We spent that night and Christmas Eve morning withMom until our grandparents offered to drive us back to the farm. “We’ll takeyou home and then come back to get you tomorrow,” Grandma said. “We can allshare Christmas with Virgie and the baby at the hospital.” Dean, who was verytired, readily agreed. We piled into Grandpa and Grandma’s car and headed tothe farm.
Wedidn’t have a telephone, so Dean told our grandparents we would see them onChristmas morning and off they went. We boys bounded inside, not at all tired.“Yay!” we shouted. “We’ve got a new brother! And tonight Santa Claus iscoming!”
Manyyears later, Dean told us that he then realized he had forgotten about Santaand that the Christmas gifts planned for our stockings were in the trunk of thecar in the hospital parking lot 50 miles away. So, after dinner and checkingthe livestock, he quietly tucked us into bed and smiled at our excitement overSanta’s pending arrival. He had a plan.
Whenwe raced from our beds Christmas morning, our stockings were bulging. Butbefore we could look into them, Dean lifted a letter off the table. “Look! Aletter from Santa,” he said. He opened it and read: “Hello boys! I know howmuch your Mom and new brother want to see what you’re getting from me forChristmas, so I’ve taken your presents to the hospital so you can open themthere after you go back with your Grandpa and Grandma.”
“Ain’t that nice of him boys?” Deansaid. “Your Mom will be so happy.” We all looked a bit skeptical at that butcould still see that our stockings seemed pretty full of something.
“What’sin our stockings?” I asked.
“Well,let’s take a look.” Dean stepped aside and we reached in to pull out apples,oranges, nuts, toothbrushes and a shiny piece of cardboard. Affixed to thatcardboard in each of our stockings were Army medals and insignia.
“Well,would you look at that,” Dean said. “Just like mine. Santa must’ve heard metelling you about them and knew how much you liked them.”
They were Christmas gifts beyondour wildest dreams; a memory created by our new Dad to last a lifetime.
© Copyright January2024 by Dan Jorgensen
December 21, 2024
'A testimonial to survival'
“I started writing poetry when I wasabout 13.” – Al Purdy
Born in Ontario, Canada in December,1918, Purdy had a 56-year writing career led by a remarkable 39 books of poetry. Often called Canada's "unofficial poetlaureate,” he wrote right up to his death in 1999. His death bed, in fact, was cluttered withhis books and papers he was writing, and he was a bit chagrined by the fact that his publisherwas planning a “collected works” version of his poems.
“A ‘collected poems' is either agravestone or a testimonial to survival,” he said. Here, from Beyond Remembering: Thecollected poems of Al Purdy – and for Saturday’s Poem – is Purdy’s,
Listening to Myself
I see myself staggering through deepsnow
lugging blocks of wood yesterday
an old man
almost falling from bodily weakness
— look down on myself from above
then front and both sides
white hair — wrinkled face and hands
it's really not very surprising
that love spoken by my voice
should be when I am listening
ridiculous
yet there it is
a foolish old man with brain on fire
stumbling through the snow
— the loss of love
that comes to mean more
than the love itself
and how to explain that?
— a still pool in the forest
that has ceased to reflect anything
except the past
— remains a sort of half-love
that is akin to kindness
and I am angry remembering
remembering the song of flesh
to flesh and bone to bone
the loss is better
