Katey Schultz's Blog, page 23
September 30, 2013
2013 Gold Medal Book of the Year (Literary Fiction) from MWSA
Big news here from the book tour road, folks:
The most helpful thing readers can do now is recommend Flashes of War to a friend or share this link directly with one or two people you may know in a book club, sharing your personal recommendation for the book. There are two radio links in the upper left corner of this website that introduce new readers to the work very efficiently.
Thank you all! One step at a time, we'll get this book onto shelves and into people's hands!
The most helpful thing readers can do now is recommend Flashes of War to a friend or share this link directly with one or two people you may know in a book club, sharing your personal recommendation for the book. There are two radio links in the upper left corner of this website that introduce new readers to the work very efficiently.Thank you all! One step at a time, we'll get this book onto shelves and into people's hands!
September 26, 2013
Flashes of War Goes to Portland
Please join me this morning at 11am Pacific Standard Time (1pm Eastern) on air with Jim Schumock for KBOO Community Radio. I'll read 3 flashes, including 2 never before head on air or in public, and do a live interview. Click here and then click the LISTEN tab and you'll be able to stream from anywhere! Pacific Northwest readers, this station extends from the Oregon coast inland to Hood River, so check your dial!
Later tonight I'll be celebrating the West Coast launch of Flashes of War in Annie Bloom's Books--the store I grew up in that is still going strong. I'm very excited to celebrate with my friends, family, and folks from all periods of my life at this event...if not also a bit nervous. Give me an audience of strangers any day, but an audience of people I know deeply and, well...
I know I'm supported by them, but my love for this city and the people here makes me want to read that much more powerfully tonight. If you're in town, please come on out for the fun! If you're reading this blog from afar, please send me good, calm, confident vibes. Also, keep your fingers crossed for this Saturday's announcement of the Military Writers Society of America awards--because Flashes of war is nominated for Book of the Year.
Later tonight I'll be celebrating the West Coast launch of Flashes of War in Annie Bloom's Books--the store I grew up in that is still going strong. I'm very excited to celebrate with my friends, family, and folks from all periods of my life at this event...if not also a bit nervous. Give me an audience of strangers any day, but an audience of people I know deeply and, well...
I know I'm supported by them, but my love for this city and the people here makes me want to read that much more powerfully tonight. If you're in town, please come on out for the fun! If you're reading this blog from afar, please send me good, calm, confident vibes. Also, keep your fingers crossed for this Saturday's announcement of the Military Writers Society of America awards--because Flashes of war is nominated for Book of the Year.
September 23, 2013
Wallow Mountains: A Return to the Heart
Chief Joseph Mountain now...The past two days back in the Wallowa Mountains of Eastern Oregon have been full of reflection and beauty. Back in 2011, I lived and loved here for six months. Long enough to make friends, start a relationship, get a job, consider buying a house, and teach flash fiction to dozens of local teens. Also long enough to solidify my already explosive love for this county...and for those who don't know, by way of quick introduction: Wallowa County, Oregon is in the very northeastern corner near Idaho and Washington. It includes a dozen peaks over 9,000 feet (and some over 10,000), plus the 2nd deepest canyon in North America, and over 50,000 acres of high prairie with rare grasses, wildflowers, and songbirds. It is, by my standards, one of the most ecologically and geographically satisfying places in the United States. Add to that the fact that the small communities of people here are kind, generous, creative, unique, hard-working, and gentle and, well...you've got a recipe for one of the best places on Earth.So, why didn't I buy that house? Stay with that man? Apply for that job or keep the one I had? Several reasons. First, I wasn't done with my three years on the road for my writing career. Second, that man didn't want to stay with me (and that was for the better). Third, I wasn't entirely financially prepared to take on a mortgage unless I accepted full time employment along with it--which I had an offer for, but not the heart for. Fourth, throughout all my 3 years on the road, I knew I needed to give North Carolina one more try. My parents live there. The South Toe River Valley is my Southern equivalent to the Wallowas and while it still doesn't hold the history I have here, it holds a lot more--like my future. So in June 2011 I left, and the ribbon of highway miles that rolled beneath THE CLAW were some of the most hard-earned of my entire life.
For these reasons, being back is somewhat bittersweet. But I'm happy to report that, more than being bittersweet, my return feels satisfying. My ex and I are friends now, and supporting each other in our new and separate loves. The chocolate shop I worked for is still going strong, and uses the same barista/drink making set up that I first advised them on when their business began. They are a truly unique, family-operated business, making nationally renowned truffles. I also put out an email to a few friends in town before I arrived--on a whim--hoping they could join me for a dinner at the local brew pub (lord help me, the Terminal Gravity ESG!) and was so touched when nearly everyone showed up. It made me feel very lucky and it reassured my belief in humanity--that even through the distance of time, memory, and miles, friendships and meaningful connections still endure.
Chief Joseph Mountain during my winter stay, 2011.This morning, I woke early to get a hike in before an otherwise busy day. Sure, I don't have events today, but I have 4 events next week and over 700 miles to drive, so you can bet I've got to stay caught up on my editing and reading work in the meantime. I ate a huge breakfast, guzzled water, put on my hiking clothes, and hit the trail sans pack. I knew I only had two hours, so I hit it as hard as I could for an hour and then turned around. The trail around the backside of Cheif Joseph Mountain, heading up Hurricane Creek and in the direction of the Lakes region of the National Forest, was just as I remembered it...except without snow this time. The valley was drenched from last night's rain, but clouds lifted against the backdrop of a light, yellow sun. Fog moved alongside me and above me, sometimes revealing a peak but mostly keeping the range a secret. I knew that I was surrounded on all sides by 9,000-foot peaks, but my eyes stayed trained on the rockslide trail, the glacial rivermelt, and the fading green shrubs of fall in the mountains.
Higher up, a dusting of snow teased the ridgelines and suddenly, gray clouds dropped down. I turned around and headed back toward the trailhead, rain drizzling onto my cap and tickling my arms. If I stopped, I'd catch a chill, but that was part of the fun. Yesterday, I ran four miles alongside Wallowa Lake. My knees can only take so much, so I knew I was pushing my limits today with pace and gear but I also knew I could get away with it, for just these six miles, just these two hours, just one memory made in the mountains I love so much.In 2011, my time in the Wallowas was hugely productive in terms of writing. The Writing Life blog grew in popularity and I grew myself as a place-based writer. For those interested, enjoy these photos and most popular posts from my six months here: The Sea Cow of Wallowa Lake, Bookwork and Footwork, The Enduring Elk, Week 2 Reflections, Success, Photo Collage, Week 7 Reflections, Walking Backwards Through Time, Close But No Offer, There Are Places Here, The Zumwalt, Rail Canyon Road, Three Cowboys and a Writer, The Living End, Farewell, Writer's Retreat, Imnaha River Canyon, Craft in the Canyon, Lessons from the Canyon, and Canyon Photo Collage.
September 19, 2013
Portland: An Anaphora Draft
There's no mistaking it--that evergreen cool feel of Pacific Northwest air across my skin. This air will always represent the truest feeling of home for me. While I've called Appalachia "home" more recently, it's with a forward-thinking tone, as in: This is where I'm making my home. But Portland is my tried-and-true home place...
The city I learned to drive in. The city I loved and lost in. The city I snuck into and out of. The city I waited in concert ticket lines for--Pearl Jam, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Everclear, Foo Fighters, Tom Petty, Bush and girls singing everything zen on the Trimet 41 until ticket stubs wallpapered my bedroom like a badge of cool. City of coffee, of rain clouds, of Marlboro Lights. City of Happy Brown Bag and grunge rock. Of late nights at Powell's, of food trucks and hairy vegans. Of coffee snobs and decadent doughnuts, of piercings like so many stars in the sky.
The city of soccer fields and cleats clicking down paved park pathways. Of undefeated Fillies seasons and real, red, team jerseys. The way the mud caked our shin guards, flaking off in dry sheets days later. How girls came together for the Let's go Fillies! no matter who had the curls or who had the boys or even who was in a B cup with underwire. Later, the city for ruggers--Mom and Dad hosting the college team as we tore up fields and tendons, canvas jerseys and hard-toed boots.
The city of prank calls and slam letters, of S's Jeep Cherokee flipping over on Hillsdale Highway and that same month, Cindy slamming her brakes as we rammed into another Jeep--not S's--and I'm fine, everyone is fine. The city of Cindy, for that matter, who could have any boy she wanted but why that one, the same one, and how she shared with me all their secrets while I smiled my lying smile and the city, inside of me then, raining its silent rain across my cheeks. For years then: the city of everyone kissing and kissing, while I waited. Wondered. Gave up and moved on.
Gateway city to snowboarding and 40-ounce bottles of Old English 800. City of skipping classes, of still getting straight A's, of bullshit multiple-choice tests and self-righteous senioritis. And I'm sorry, city, that we squatted on your soccer fields and peed drunk on the centerline in the middle of the night, that we ran your red lights on the east side because no one cared, that we heckled the Vietnamese man into selling Bartles & James again and again. That we chugged it while pretending to be black gangsta rappers.
And still, the city held us through those awkward years, like gathered clouds threatening to storm. It lit up and burned one down, it demanded gay rights and rights to die. The city. Our city. Where we'd meet on the corner and say "Fuck the [Star]Buck," turning on our heels to walk the block to Coffee People. And then all of the sudden, that place on the Morrison Bridge where A's mother jumped off...
What do you mean she--
The place in A's front yard, then, where I stood and realized he'd moved: brother, bed, bookshelves, and that old beater their mom left them. That old beater. Our city.
She's still here, her patchy sunlight pushing through clouds and deep green canopies, to bring my nostalgia into focus. It's always so much clearer looking back. Everything lost, then found again. Everything so true, it doesn't even need to be said.
The city I learned to drive in. The city I loved and lost in. The city I snuck into and out of. The city I waited in concert ticket lines for--Pearl Jam, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Everclear, Foo Fighters, Tom Petty, Bush and girls singing everything zen on the Trimet 41 until ticket stubs wallpapered my bedroom like a badge of cool. City of coffee, of rain clouds, of Marlboro Lights. City of Happy Brown Bag and grunge rock. Of late nights at Powell's, of food trucks and hairy vegans. Of coffee snobs and decadent doughnuts, of piercings like so many stars in the sky.The city of soccer fields and cleats clicking down paved park pathways. Of undefeated Fillies seasons and real, red, team jerseys. The way the mud caked our shin guards, flaking off in dry sheets days later. How girls came together for the Let's go Fillies! no matter who had the curls or who had the boys or even who was in a B cup with underwire. Later, the city for ruggers--Mom and Dad hosting the college team as we tore up fields and tendons, canvas jerseys and hard-toed boots.
The city of prank calls and slam letters, of S's Jeep Cherokee flipping over on Hillsdale Highway and that same month, Cindy slamming her brakes as we rammed into another Jeep--not S's--and I'm fine, everyone is fine. The city of Cindy, for that matter, who could have any boy she wanted but why that one, the same one, and how she shared with me all their secrets while I smiled my lying smile and the city, inside of me then, raining its silent rain across my cheeks. For years then: the city of everyone kissing and kissing, while I waited. Wondered. Gave up and moved on.
Gateway city to snowboarding and 40-ounce bottles of Old English 800. City of skipping classes, of still getting straight A's, of bullshit multiple-choice tests and self-righteous senioritis. And I'm sorry, city, that we squatted on your soccer fields and peed drunk on the centerline in the middle of the night, that we ran your red lights on the east side because no one cared, that we heckled the Vietnamese man into selling Bartles & James again and again. That we chugged it while pretending to be black gangsta rappers.
And still, the city held us through those awkward years, like gathered clouds threatening to storm. It lit up and burned one down, it demanded gay rights and rights to die. The city. Our city. Where we'd meet on the corner and say "Fuck the [Star]Buck," turning on our heels to walk the block to Coffee People. And then all of the sudden, that place on the Morrison Bridge where A's mother jumped off...
What do you mean she--
The place in A's front yard, then, where I stood and realized he'd moved: brother, bed, bookshelves, and that old beater their mom left them. That old beater. Our city.
She's still here, her patchy sunlight pushing through clouds and deep green canopies, to bring my nostalgia into focus. It's always so much clearer looking back. Everything lost, then found again. Everything so true, it doesn't even need to be said.
September 16, 2013
Book Tour: Round Two Begins
Check out the tour dates on the left hand sidebar and please follow along here and via Facebook these next few weeks. This is the final big leg of the journey and I am so excited---excited to start because I know I'm doing what I need to do, and excited for it to end because I desperately want to be home and settling down. If you know folks in the cities I am visiting, please feel free to inform them of my readings. I'm determined to make a good impression on book sellers. I can show up and do my best, but there is nothing that beats a word of mouth recommendation. Thank you, readers, for riding the roller coaster with me. Stay tuned for these next 12 events in 4 weeks...
September 12, 2013
Carolina Mountains Literary Festival
Tonight's the night it all begins, folks! And Friday and Saturday are full of unique sessions from 12 different authors reading from their work, discussing their craft, taking questions, and "taking you there" through the power of words.View the full schedule here and come join us!
September 9, 2013
The Levenger Tyler Folio
Big week last week! Flashes of War was featured on NPR Morning Edition via WNCW's regional spotlight with host Pam Bunch. If you missed it live, check out the archived 7-minute podcast right here.
This summer while I was teaching and on tour, a very large package from Levenger arrived on my parents' doorstep, addressed to me. Since neither of us knew its source, I asked my parents to open it for me. There was no way I'd be able to wait until I got home to learn the content of this box. They said it weighed almost ten pounds, and everything in it was very finely wrapped. Stuffing and wrapping aside, when it was all said and done, my parents described to me a very professional, leather, business folio (what Levenger is perhaps most famous for) with my initials engraved on the front. The weight of the box came from the other package beneath all the stuffing--10 trademarked, full-sized, lined notebooks cut for the perfect fit inside the folio.
I've never been afraid of the blank page. Never been one of those writers who needed to write perfectly in the notebook or felt intimidated by a blinking cursor or unfilled pages, abandoned diaries, or unused notebooks. But I've never had a Levenger, either. And certainly not 10 blank notebooks! On the cusp of the biggest revision job of my life--revising a first, godhelpme, novel--you can bet I'm feeling the weight of the task before me. When I finally got home and saw the folio for myself, along with the card from Cousin John (Mom's first cousin), I knew exactly what I'd use it for: re-working the novel.
Sure, I'll also use it to take notes at festivals and conferences. Maybe that would be a different one of the 10 notebooks? Conveniently, they slip in and out and are easily exchangeable. Perhaps I'll store presentation notes in it or speak from it with a little more authority. It's a beautiful object, for sure, but I'm also kind of excited for it to start getting its first marks of wear and tear around the edges. In order for that to happen, I'd actually have to start using it and here, ladies and gents, is where the confession comes in: I am a little intimidated by the folio. It sits on the corner bookshelf next to my desk and watches me, wondering when I'll begin that task of revision and if I can really do it by hand...or will I just be brainstorming? There's something about "leather" and "brainstorming" that doesn't go together. But I drafted much of the first version of the novel by hand and enjoyed the process, both longhand and shorthand, of seeing the words and sentences unfold on the page in that way. The Levenger awaits either way...
This summer while I was teaching and on tour, a very large package from Levenger arrived on my parents' doorstep, addressed to me. Since neither of us knew its source, I asked my parents to open it for me. There was no way I'd be able to wait until I got home to learn the content of this box. They said it weighed almost ten pounds, and everything in it was very finely wrapped. Stuffing and wrapping aside, when it was all said and done, my parents described to me a very professional, leather, business folio (what Levenger is perhaps most famous for) with my initials engraved on the front. The weight of the box came from the other package beneath all the stuffing--10 trademarked, full-sized, lined notebooks cut for the perfect fit inside the folio.I've never been afraid of the blank page. Never been one of those writers who needed to write perfectly in the notebook or felt intimidated by a blinking cursor or unfilled pages, abandoned diaries, or unused notebooks. But I've never had a Levenger, either. And certainly not 10 blank notebooks! On the cusp of the biggest revision job of my life--revising a first, godhelpme, novel--you can bet I'm feeling the weight of the task before me. When I finally got home and saw the folio for myself, along with the card from Cousin John (Mom's first cousin), I knew exactly what I'd use it for: re-working the novel.
Sure, I'll also use it to take notes at festivals and conferences. Maybe that would be a different one of the 10 notebooks? Conveniently, they slip in and out and are easily exchangeable. Perhaps I'll store presentation notes in it or speak from it with a little more authority. It's a beautiful object, for sure, but I'm also kind of excited for it to start getting its first marks of wear and tear around the edges. In order for that to happen, I'd actually have to start using it and here, ladies and gents, is where the confession comes in: I am a little intimidated by the folio. It sits on the corner bookshelf next to my desk and watches me, wondering when I'll begin that task of revision and if I can really do it by hand...or will I just be brainstorming? There's something about "leather" and "brainstorming" that doesn't go together. But I drafted much of the first version of the novel by hand and enjoyed the process, both longhand and shorthand, of seeing the words and sentences unfold on the page in that way. The Levenger awaits either way...
September 5, 2013
Book Tour: Spilling My Guts, Part 2
THIS FRIDAY: If you listen to NPR Morning Edition, you can stream it on WNCW and hear me read from Flashes of War on the regional spotlight at 8:50am EST. [Squeal!] Locally, come check out City Lights Bookstore in Sylva @ 6:30pm for a reading and signing. Also, check out the feature article in The Laurel of Asheville this month, which details the upcoming Carolina Mountains Literary Festival.
A friend asked me the other day about how I felt diving into this career transition and being "an author with a book." The only response I could offer came from somewhere in between. In other words, I don't feel I've fully made the transition yet. What I do know is this: I have learned so much since the release of Flashes of War that it doesn't even feel like I have the same brain I had a few months ago. Beyond that statement, the only other information I seem to be able to articulate comes out only to close friends when I spill my guts about highs and lows of book touring, adjustment of expectations, and my feeling-pretty-good sentiments today. When I speak I'm sure I'm using run-on sentences and touting half-formed insights...but that's what friends are for, right? Eventually, those valued, listening ears will help me find my way to a succinct version of lessons learned.
I'm more than halfway through my "month back at home" that was supposed to nourish and rejuvinate me between these two legs of the book tour. So far, my thinking is that nothing
That's like half a day's work...and good, fun work, indeed. In order to pace myself, I'll need to start my days slowly and gently--perhaps just focusing on yoga or the novel, reading or good coffee. If I don't, I'm likely to create a string of 12-hour days for myself for another month straight. Can it be done? Sure. Do I like myself when I do that? Not so much.
The reality of balancing a checkbook while maintaining this kind of schedule is what I seem to struggle with. It's not a struggle that I resent. I'm learning and I'm very happy to be freelancing, mentoring, and lecturing. But there are some days when the math won't add up. For instance, a book event that takes 3 1/2 hours and sells 10 books will earn me $10 in royalties, issued once a year in a check from my publisher. That's par for the course and not going to change. But it does put more pressure on me to work additional hours at my freelance rate to "even out" what I suppose you could call my "average hourly wage." And it also means that some mornings, the idea of yoga and the novel will simply be too idealistic.
Let's look at this more closely: If I'm putting in a 8-10 hour day and some of that is at $2 an hour for a book event and some of that is at $30 an hour for freelancing...and I'm staying in a hotel for $60 per night and paying $20 per day for my rental car and spending perhaps just as much on food each day...well...that means I'm bringing in maybe $100 in a day and spending $110. Pretty good, until you add in bills (phone, insurance, student loans). Other days, of course, will involve a single 2-hour event that covers me for the week. In the end, I'm betting that with smart spending, good friends to host me along the way, and a little luck, I'll be able to break even.
My friend's question about how life feels now was a good one. Maybe by the end of 2013, I'll have a clearer response for her. For now, the math of this transition and the miles I have yet to travel weigh on my mind each day. It's a challenge I've wanted. Here's hoping my foundation feels even stronger by the time it's all said and done!
A friend asked me the other day about how I felt diving into this career transition and being "an author with a book." The only response I could offer came from somewhere in between. In other words, I don't feel I've fully made the transition yet. What I do know is this: I have learned so much since the release of Flashes of War that it doesn't even feel like I have the same brain I had a few months ago. Beyond that statement, the only other information I seem to be able to articulate comes out only to close friends when I spill my guts about highs and lows of book touring, adjustment of expectations, and my feeling-pretty-good sentiments today. When I speak I'm sure I'm using run-on sentences and touting half-formed insights...but that's what friends are for, right? Eventually, those valued, listening ears will help me find my way to a succinct version of lessons learned.
I'm more than halfway through my "month back at home" that was supposed to nourish and rejuvinate me between these two legs of the book tour. So far, my thinking is that nothing
That's like half a day's work...and good, fun work, indeed. In order to pace myself, I'll need to start my days slowly and gently--perhaps just focusing on yoga or the novel, reading or good coffee. If I don't, I'm likely to create a string of 12-hour days for myself for another month straight. Can it be done? Sure. Do I like myself when I do that? Not so much.
The reality of balancing a checkbook while maintaining this kind of schedule is what I seem to struggle with. It's not a struggle that I resent. I'm learning and I'm very happy to be freelancing, mentoring, and lecturing. But there are some days when the math won't add up. For instance, a book event that takes 3 1/2 hours and sells 10 books will earn me $10 in royalties, issued once a year in a check from my publisher. That's par for the course and not going to change. But it does put more pressure on me to work additional hours at my freelance rate to "even out" what I suppose you could call my "average hourly wage." And it also means that some mornings, the idea of yoga and the novel will simply be too idealistic.
Let's look at this more closely: If I'm putting in a 8-10 hour day and some of that is at $2 an hour for a book event and some of that is at $30 an hour for freelancing...and I'm staying in a hotel for $60 per night and paying $20 per day for my rental car and spending perhaps just as much on food each day...well...that means I'm bringing in maybe $100 in a day and spending $110. Pretty good, until you add in bills (phone, insurance, student loans). Other days, of course, will involve a single 2-hour event that covers me for the week. In the end, I'm betting that with smart spending, good friends to host me along the way, and a little luck, I'll be able to break even.
My friend's question about how life feels now was a good one. Maybe by the end of 2013, I'll have a clearer response for her. For now, the math of this transition and the miles I have yet to travel weigh on my mind each day. It's a challenge I've wanted. Here's hoping my foundation feels even stronger by the time it's all said and done!
September 2, 2013
On Being Home
It's the little things, really, that help me feel like I'm home again:
I love flowers...but rarely remember to buy them for myself. Being home, surrounded by all my wonderful handmade ceramic household wares, I felt inspired this week to fill every vase I own with flowers.
And it's sure nice having my maps back (and being in the mountains that I know so well).
And I really missed my books. So much so, that I wrote about how I organize My Library. (Click the link, you'll love this author's blog that I was a guest writer for this weekend!)
But of course, most of all...Gus, the super dog makes home that much sweeter.
I love flowers...but rarely remember to buy them for myself. Being home, surrounded by all my wonderful handmade ceramic household wares, I felt inspired this week to fill every vase I own with flowers.
And it's sure nice having my maps back (and being in the mountains that I know so well).
And I really missed my books. So much so, that I wrote about how I organize My Library. (Click the link, you'll love this author's blog that I was a guest writer for this weekend!)
But of course, most of all...Gus, the super dog makes home that much sweeter.August 29, 2013
Shortbus Studio: Inspiring Flash Fiction
[There's a flash fiction video at the end of this post!]
I'm pleased to be one of this year's featured authors at the Carolina Mountains Literary Festival...and even more pleased that part of this includes celebrating new flash fiction written by the artists of Shortbus Studio. According to their website, "Yancey Residential Services is a private, non-profit agency which provides a variety of programs and services to individuals with serious developmental disabilities such as mental retardation, spina bifida, cerebral palsy and Down Syndrome. The agency recently opened an outsider art gallery called Shortbus Studio. The studio provides adults with developmental disabilities an opportunity to express their natural artistic ability and sense of humor."
I have taught flash fiction to well over 1000 children in Oregon, Michigan, and North Carolina...but I have never taught adults with serious developmental disabilities. Today was our first day in the Studio and I have to say--we had a blast! The artists had been primed for my visit by studying "main ideas," "details," and "paragraphs." When I arrived, I told them we would be writing stories that were one paragraph long.
"I make people up for a living," I told them. "When you're a writer and you make people up, you call those people characters. Characters are a lot like imaginary friends." Lights of recognition shone across their faces and I knew we were going to have a good time.
As the lesson progressed, I told the artists that in order to write about a character, you have to pretend that your body is their body. This really got their attention. How do you pretend you have someone else's body? What would that feel like? We discussed the five senses and made up our first flash fiction together. I offered the first line of the story, asked guiding questions, offered a few more sentence starters and verbs, and we were off and running. Using the photograph at the right, we created a character name Ryan who was a tall, blonde-haired cowboy singer traveling to New York City on tour. He was staying in the top floor of this hotel and he felt happy about his music, but he also felt lonely. Using the five senses as our guide, here is what we wrote:
Ryan had never seen anything like it before. He looked out the window at the tree. It was a rainbow of different colors: red, yellow, blue, and purple. It made him feel ecstatic and nervous. He thought about writing a song. He heard the busy city: honking, voices, and high-pitched birds chirping. He smelled Chinese food, Mexican food, and garbage. He wrote the first line of his song: I wish I had a girl in a rainbow tree.
As an educator, there were a few things I learned within the opening moments of class that I had not anticipated: when someone in your classes uses a wheelchair, you have to be mindful of the white board location. Those of us who aren't in wheelchairs can easily take for granted the fact that we can turn our bodies halfway around to look at something, or that our heads have full range of motion and aren't restricted. I was also able to realize quite quickly that several artists were non-verbal, but were very engaged. Using sentence starters, nodding my head yes or no, and reading facial expressions allowed us to communicate. For those artists who did not write, their stories were dictated line by line as I prompted them, they thought, they spoke, I confirmed or clarified, and then we agreed on a sentence. The collaboration was exciting! We had time at the end of class for sharing. Here is a snapshot video of two especially inspiring moments of teamwork and support. For more footage and stories, please attend our Literary Festival session Friday, September 13 at 7pm in the Town Center Legacy Room.
I'm pleased to be one of this year's featured authors at the Carolina Mountains Literary Festival...and even more pleased that part of this includes celebrating new flash fiction written by the artists of Shortbus Studio. According to their website, "Yancey Residential Services is a private, non-profit agency which provides a variety of programs and services to individuals with serious developmental disabilities such as mental retardation, spina bifida, cerebral palsy and Down Syndrome. The agency recently opened an outsider art gallery called Shortbus Studio. The studio provides adults with developmental disabilities an opportunity to express their natural artistic ability and sense of humor."
I have taught flash fiction to well over 1000 children in Oregon, Michigan, and North Carolina...but I have never taught adults with serious developmental disabilities. Today was our first day in the Studio and I have to say--we had a blast! The artists had been primed for my visit by studying "main ideas," "details," and "paragraphs." When I arrived, I told them we would be writing stories that were one paragraph long.
"I make people up for a living," I told them. "When you're a writer and you make people up, you call those people characters. Characters are a lot like imaginary friends." Lights of recognition shone across their faces and I knew we were going to have a good time.
As the lesson progressed, I told the artists that in order to write about a character, you have to pretend that your body is their body. This really got their attention. How do you pretend you have someone else's body? What would that feel like? We discussed the five senses and made up our first flash fiction together. I offered the first line of the story, asked guiding questions, offered a few more sentence starters and verbs, and we were off and running. Using the photograph at the right, we created a character name Ryan who was a tall, blonde-haired cowboy singer traveling to New York City on tour. He was staying in the top floor of this hotel and he felt happy about his music, but he also felt lonely. Using the five senses as our guide, here is what we wrote:Ryan had never seen anything like it before. He looked out the window at the tree. It was a rainbow of different colors: red, yellow, blue, and purple. It made him feel ecstatic and nervous. He thought about writing a song. He heard the busy city: honking, voices, and high-pitched birds chirping. He smelled Chinese food, Mexican food, and garbage. He wrote the first line of his song: I wish I had a girl in a rainbow tree.
As an educator, there were a few things I learned within the opening moments of class that I had not anticipated: when someone in your classes uses a wheelchair, you have to be mindful of the white board location. Those of us who aren't in wheelchairs can easily take for granted the fact that we can turn our bodies halfway around to look at something, or that our heads have full range of motion and aren't restricted. I was also able to realize quite quickly that several artists were non-verbal, but were very engaged. Using sentence starters, nodding my head yes or no, and reading facial expressions allowed us to communicate. For those artists who did not write, their stories were dictated line by line as I prompted them, they thought, they spoke, I confirmed or clarified, and then we agreed on a sentence. The collaboration was exciting! We had time at the end of class for sharing. Here is a snapshot video of two especially inspiring moments of teamwork and support. For more footage and stories, please attend our Literary Festival session Friday, September 13 at 7pm in the Town Center Legacy Room.
