Lori Ann Stephens's Blog, page 9

MAYbe I can do it

So, I decided to participate in a May Blogfest to jumpstart my blog writing. If you're a writer or a blogger or a reader interested in writers and bloggers, you can read all the details here, where Sara McClung describes the fest. Here's the fancy image to legitimize the deal:
[image error] Of course, May 1 came sometime around yesterday, and...epic fail. I didn't post the very first day. But it does say "MAYbe," which kind of gives me an out. I will try to do this better. Scout's honor.
There are some suggestions for daily topics, so I'll begin with those, then let whimsy take me where she will. Tuesday (the day I missed), was the "let me tell you something about myself" day, so I'll do that first.
Let me tell you: I love Malbec wine, stinky cheese,
[image error] from herethe sound of cicadas, a writing groove, my older son's paintings, the smell of my eight-year-old's sweaty hair after a playground run, silicone basters, the sound of the hamster wheel thumpering at night, 

[image error]from here
cuckoo clocks, and turning the a/c down to 70 so I can sleepunder a down blanket in summer. 

I dislike Texas "waterbugs" (a.k.a. giant cockroaches), unpacking suitcases, Texas summers, [image error]from here
allergy eyes that puff up like white balloons, long stretches of not hearing from my college-aged son and wondering if he's still alive.
I'm going to hop over to some other blogs and read about the other MAYbe bloggers. Actually, I read Jessica Love's blog because I follow her Feed, and hers is pretty funny stuff.
So, please tell me something about you. Make it count. Make it juicy.

My newest obsession

So, I can't stop pressing "replay" in this little 5-minute song.
Is it Johnny Depp's gaze? Or Natalie's lovely hands? Or Paul McCartney's buttery voice?


Paul McCartney's 'My Valentine' (Feat. Natalie Portman & Johnny Depp)

And now: a Mini-Opera

Several weeks ago, I stumbled upon this link, which was a call for amateur writers (librettists), composers, and film makers to write a mini-opera for a fun competition. 
Here is the story to inspire the script, written and read by Neil Gaiman.
So, this is what the website says: "We’re after the most creative, innovative and interesting writers, music makers and film makers out there, whatever your level of experience or knowledge." My experience would be nil, and my knowledge, very close to that (i.e., null?). (I love operas, but over the last few years, haven't been able to attend them as often as I'd like. So I watch them on DVDs and listen to them on the iPod.)
But after listening to Gaiman, who is wickedly genius, haunting me with his story, I sat down and wrote this. If you want to listen to the music I was listening to (Fratres, by Arvo Pärt) as I composed this, open this link, let the music play for a minute or so, then minimize the screen so you can read the opera and hear the music I happened to have on.  sourceTHE LINGERER A Mini-Opera
SCENE : AN EMPTY STADIUM AFTER A GAME. THE LANKY SWEEPER ENTERS, PUSHING A LARGE BROOM ACROSS THE BASE OF RISERS (BLEACHERS). HIS HAIR IS LONG AND UNKEMPT, AND ALTHOUGH THE SLEEVES OF HIS JUMPER ARE ROLLED UP TO REVEAL A DRAGON TATTOO AND A CIGARETTE DANGLES FROM HIS LIPS, THERE IS SOMETHING ALLURING ABOUT HIM. HE IS EXHAUSTED.
HE ENCOUNTERS PANINA, A HAUNTINGLY BEAUTIFUL YOUNG WOMAN, IN AN EMPTY STADIUM. IN THE ROW BEFORE HER, AN ARM'S LENGTH AWAY, IS A SMILING BOY, 6. PANINA SITS LIKE A STATUE ON THE BLEACHERS, GAZING AT THE BOY, AMID THE REMAINS OF THE GAME--CRUSHED POPCORN BOXES AND PAPER CUPS, CRUMPLED PAPERS AND SCATTERED NAPKINS AND OTHER DETRITUS.
THE SWEEPER STOPS, LOOKS AROUND, THEN EXTINGUISHES HIS CIGARETTE ON THE
FLOOR WITH HIS BOOT. HE RECOGNIZES PANINA, AND THOUGH HE HAS NEVER SPOKEN TO HER, HIS HEART ACHES AT THE SIGHT OF HER.

SWEEPER: Another one. Lingerer,
Come, it's time.
The game is lost.
I've work to do.
Dreams to burn.
There is nothing here for you.
PANINA: No. Please.
SWEEPER:
Lingerer, I've work to do.
You exhaust me at the waking hour.
I cannot make exceptions for you.
Go.
PANINA:


No! SWEEPER:
You must.

PANINA:


I won't. SWEEPER:


I've seen you before. Waiting here
hoping, holding your breath, the cheers
Of spectators still echoing,
lifting you on a cloud.
To the palimpsest of dawn, to places we're not allowed. SWEEPER TURNS ASIDE AND SPEAKS TO HIMSELF.

And I've seen those cheeks before,
Flushed, alive. How I've wanted more—
to touch them. To feel her pulse on my lips.
I am a fool. A Sweeper of Dreams.

HE TURNS BACK AND SPEAKS TO PANINA.
But look, these halls are empty now.
The sun is born
I've work to do
Dreams to burn.
(TO HIMSELF)
And you to burn from these visions now.
PANINA: Six months, he has been gone from me.
Six months since he flew.
Six years is too young to go.
Six years is too few.
And here I'll stay, where we cheer,
Where his face is bright,
Where we meet each night.
SWEEPER: Lingerer, there are dreams and there is death
Lingerer, you cannot have the two.
It will not do.
PANINA:
Please, please. I beg of you,
Do not wake me from this sleep.
Don't sweep away his singsong voice,
The smell of his skin, his palm on my cheek.
He's happy here, and I am, too.
Let the living world rust,
But do not burn my son to dust.

SWEEPER:
This is no world for you.
The boy is gone.

PANINA:


My boy is here. SWEEPER: There is only madness dear
If you choose to stay.
I've seen the sturdiest men
crumple under savage screams.
You cannot live in the wreckage
of your dreams.
Come, boy.

THE SWEEPER HOLDS OUT HIS HAND TO THE BOY. THE BOY STEPS DOWN OFF THE BLEACHERS AND SITS BEFORE THE SWEEPER, IN A SMALL PILE OF POPCORN BOXES, PENNANTS, FALLEN BALLOONS, ETC.
PANINA:
Take me, too!

SHE RUSHES DOWN AND COLLAPSES AT THE SWEEPER'S FEET. THEY SING TOGETHER.


SWEEPER: PANINA: She comes to me each night. Standing here
Waiting, holding her breath,
The crowd, the cheers, lifting her on a cloud…
To serenity. I'm not allowed...


And to see her cheeks, flushed, alive.

How I've wanted tohold them…


To feel her pulse upon my lips.
My ashen lips turn golden…


I am a fool, a Sweeper of Dreams...



But look, these halls are empty in the sun... He comes to me each night. Standing here
Living, I hear his breath,
The crowd, the cheers,
lifting him on a breeze…
But heaven can't have him, he's here with me.
And to see his cheeks, flushed, alive.

How I've wanted to
take them.

To feel his pulse upon my lips,

My mourning soul awaken.



I am a mother, without her son...


But look, these halls are empty in the sun...

DAWN IS BREAKING AND THE STAGE IS COLORED MORNING. SWEEPER: I've work to do, for you, I swear.
Back to the breathing, the waking air.
Back to your living child who waits.
I sweep so you can come again, come       renewed.
These dreams I burn for you.



THE SWEEPER PLACES ANOTHER ROLLED CIGARETTE IN HIS MOUTH AND LIGHTS IT. THEN HE STRETCHES HIS HAND OVER THE PILE OF OBJECTS AND THE BOY AND FLICKS ON THE LIGHTER. A PILLAR OF SMOKE RISES UP AND ENVELOPES THE CHILD.
PANINA BACKS UP SLOWLY AS THE SWEEPER PUSHES HIS BROOM ACROSS THE STAGE. HE LOOKS BACK AND WATCHES HER RELUCTANTLY EXIT INTO THE SUNLIGHT.



CURTAIN

Because the past 24 hours have been weird

I haven't blogged about anything in many days, and since the past 24 hours have been good but surreal, here are three things that have occurred:

1. I open Twitter and see that Neil Gaiman (Yes, NEIL GAIMAN) just tweeted to my real-life, pre-social network friend. (We happen to teach at the same university and drink from the same wine bottles whenever possible.)

She's just a college teacher and writer like me, but she's so much cooler.  Confirmed by Gaiman's tweet.

2. Out of the blue, a writer from The Wall Street Journal emailed me as asked if he could talk to me about kids and smart phone apps. (And the perils of the two combined.) I spoke to him this morning, and my inner Research Nerd was awakened. I'm now trying to gather anecdotal stories from him.

3. I'm sitting outside at a sunny Starbucks patio, waiting for my son's school to release the kiddos, and a GINORMOUS black spider just swooped down on a girl in a pink hoodie as she tried to enter the café.
Screaming and mayhem ensued.
The spider zoomed up his wee little thread.
Then, as the girl tried to enter again, down came the spider again in an all-out attack.

Lesson: Pink hoodies are dangerous for girls, too.
from here
I wonder what the next few hours will bring. The little things in life are fun.

This Makes Me Happy

I used to dance. I loved to dance.
But there was graduate school
and the birth of a child
and grading
and writing novels
and grading
and staying in when my favorite man in the world is in town
and grading
and ingrown toenails
and so forth.
So I stopped dancing.
This video that I stumbled across today,
therefore, makes me happy.

Brainstorming with an 8-year-old

 A few hours ago, I clicked on a link on Neil Gaiman's tweet. It took me here. It's Neil reading a little piece called "The Sweeper of Dreams," something he wrote to inspire people to take part in the Mini Opera competition, which pairs a librettist with a composer, and later, both of those with a film maker. All these people in the competition, it is assumed, are amateurs, looking for some avenue to express their creative passion.

I thought, Cool.

Then I took my 8-year-old son out the park to ride his bike, and for me to brainstorm my work in progress, which happens to be tied to an opera.

On the way home, I mentioned to my son Julien that one of the judges for this contest was Terry Gilliam, of Monty Python's Flying Circus.  (Gilliam is one of Julien's favorites, and yes, I know that this show is completely inappropriate for an 8-year-old. Blame his French father, who insists that it provides a cultural education and that boobies are just silly.) Julien's eye grew wide at the mention of Gilliam, and he asked if anyone--even 1-year-olds?--could try to write the opera. I said yes. So we rode home and this was the brainstorming session that ensued.

("The Sweeper of Dreams," by the way, is about this guy who sweeps away your dreams as you wake so that you aren't haunted by those dreams in the waking hours. Somehow, the opera story should relate to something about Gaiman's story.

We're munching on mandarin oranges and V8 fruit juice.)

I kept trying to torque his brainstorming around to the plot, but as you can tell, maybe the magic of brainstorming is not to be so logical all the time. As I listened to it, I realized I should have just let loose rather than have a strangle-hold on the plot.



S

A bedtime story for all of us (adults)

I ran across this today--a fellow college instructor posted it on Facebook.Had to share.

We're all stars

When you feel small or alone, watch this:

Astrophysicist Dr. Neil DeGrasse Tyson

Can I just say?

I actually have two things to post to the blogosphere, but this one deserves it's own little box.

Confession time.
And this one might just make me a pariah in the Young Adult writers' community.
I'm scared.

But I was inspired by brilliant blogger (who resembles a Californian goddess), Jessica Love, whose writing is always honest (and frequently funny).

So here goes, world:

I don't get "squee."
I don't really like "squee."
Worse: I swallow a little gag now at "squee."

For those of you not in the know, I have leaped into the arms of a loving and intelligent community called Children's Book Writers, with a healthy population of Young Adults novelists. I have set aside the literary novel for adults genre and embraced the YA genre that swallowed me whole when I was an awkward, haunted teenager. I follow too many YA blogs and websites every week, and every week I am amazed at the industry, the talent, and the authors who advocate for young people.

And I'm assaulted by "squee" everywhere I go these days.
Yes, I get that "squee" is a word that expresses happiness.
That SQUEE expresses excitement and joy.
And that SQUEEEEEE!!!!!! is exhilarating and orgasmic (but still maintains an ironic innocence).
The exclamation point, by the way, seems a bit redundant, no?

It was cute at first. Really. The first time.

But after reading it over and over and over, it's lost its squee-ness.
It sounds more like a dog-toy that's been chewed to hell.
It sounds, dare I say it, juvenile.

(Apologies to the YA world for using juvenile as a negative word. But is anyone getting me??)

I tried it, too. I squee-ed right here on this blog. Somewhere.
I was feeling the pre-pubescent joy of...something.  Can't remember. But yes, I "squee"-ed.
But I shall squee no more.

I will not judge people who have written "Squee!" in the past, present, or future. Squee away, till your heart's content. I'm sorry if I offended you, squee-bers. But I'm just sayin' it might be time to find a new interjection.

A Festival that Matters

Tonight I'm paying homage to a little festival with a big heart. Highland Park High School in Dallas, Texas, has hosted a literary festival for 16 years, featuring incredible keynote writers (Naomi Shihab Nye, George Plimpton, Michael Chabon, Billy Collins, Tobias Wolff, I could go on and on).

I've had the honor of being asked to present a fiction workshop for the last five years. (I also have served as a judge in the literary writing contest.) Melora is a jewel of a human, and she organizes dozens of parent volunteers, who each work hard to make the festival happen. Bless them all! This year, the festival did things a little differently, and because of their new organization of student workshops, I was able to lead a "Driver" workshop with student writers who were actively interested in fiction writing.

Oh, how can I describe how fluttery and satisfied my heart was after leading my workshops? And how I wish all schools had the means to host literary festivals that celebrate creative writing and the power of words. Look at these kids' faces. Their faces tell us what we need to know.