Kelly Garriott Waite's Blog, page 12
April 15, 2013
In Commerce We Trust?
On Saturday, I went to a big box store to pick up a water filter and a birthday gift for my daughter. Total charge: $44.00.
"I don't need a bag," I told the cashier.
"Mom," my son nudged me. "You do need a bag. She'll see it."
Right. "Can I change my mind?"
The cashier nodded and slid my purchases into a bag before chasing them with the receipt.
My son pointed. "That's not going to hide anything."
"No," I agreed. "They probably use clear plastic so people don't steal anything." Other stores use similar tactics: garish orange PAID stickers on plastic milk jugs. RFID devices buried inside books. Security cameras...Mirrors...Alarms...
I took my bag and we headed out, pausing to laugh at a sixty dollar electronic Furby that, apparently, can learn to communicate with its owner. At the exit, a beefy security guard approached us. I held up my bag so he could see inside.
"Receipt." He extended a hand.
Read more here
"I don't need a bag," I told the cashier.
"Mom," my son nudged me. "You do need a bag. She'll see it."
Right. "Can I change my mind?"
The cashier nodded and slid my purchases into a bag before chasing them with the receipt.
My son pointed. "That's not going to hide anything."
"No," I agreed. "They probably use clear plastic so people don't steal anything." Other stores use similar tactics: garish orange PAID stickers on plastic milk jugs. RFID devices buried inside books. Security cameras...Mirrors...Alarms...
I took my bag and we headed out, pausing to laugh at a sixty dollar electronic Furby that, apparently, can learn to communicate with its owner. At the exit, a beefy security guard approached us. I held up my bag so he could see inside.
"Receipt." He extended a hand.
Read more here
April 11, 2013
Center Stage
Jackson opened the closet door, switched on the light and looked around. He loosened his tie and slid it from his neck. "Where did we go?" He stood there, not sure of where to hang his tie, now that everything had changed.
"I'm not sure," Kathy said, taking the tie and folding in half then half again. She slid open the top drawer of a massive dresser that hadn't been there that morning, when the two of them had kissed each other goodbye and left in separate cars for work. "Ties go here now, I guess."
Jackson peeked inside the drawer. His ties were rolled and lined up in a neat five-by-five matrix.
Read more here
"I'm not sure," Kathy said, taking the tie and folding in half then half again. She slid open the top drawer of a massive dresser that hadn't been there that morning, when the two of them had kissed each other goodbye and left in separate cars for work. "Ties go here now, I guess."
Jackson peeked inside the drawer. His ties were rolled and lined up in a neat five-by-five matrix.
Read more here
April 10, 2013
April 8, 2013
Home
My husband and I went to our son's reading tournament last week. The kids competing in the event sat in two groups on the floor in the center of the room, leaving parents, siblings and grandparents to find seats in the student desks shoved in a tight and hazardous bunch at the room's perimeter. To my immediate left, a woman played a gambling game on her iPhone, sharp red fingernails stabbing at the screen to stop the wheels from spinning, hopefully revealing a lucky combination of cherries or apples or the number seven.
To my right and a bit forward, something much more interesting was going on: There was a man with a bushy grey beard and long silver hair spilling down his back and onto the black windbreaker he wore. The windbreaker was adorned with the name of a local boxing group and a pair of red laced-up gloves. The man wore a baseball cap and reading glasses. He held a yellow mechanical pencil in his right hand. In his left, he held a letter, tri-folded and opened and closed many times. It was written on both sides of two sheets of unlined paper in neat rows straight as the rows of peas and carrots and green beans my father marks in his garden every spring.
The man looked at his letter, stroked his beard, then added a line to his own letter, composed on a small tablet. His pencil scratched and paused. Scratched and paused, every word weighed and considered before being added to the paper. The man set the pencil down. He clapped as a student correctly responded to a question. He unfolded the letter and examined it. He picked up his pencil and pushed on the eraser to send out more lead before continuing.
I wondered about the content of those letters. I tried in vain to read them. I wondered what type of person takes the time to write a letter these days.
Read more here
To my right and a bit forward, something much more interesting was going on: There was a man with a bushy grey beard and long silver hair spilling down his back and onto the black windbreaker he wore. The windbreaker was adorned with the name of a local boxing group and a pair of red laced-up gloves. The man wore a baseball cap and reading glasses. He held a yellow mechanical pencil in his right hand. In his left, he held a letter, tri-folded and opened and closed many times. It was written on both sides of two sheets of unlined paper in neat rows straight as the rows of peas and carrots and green beans my father marks in his garden every spring.
The man looked at his letter, stroked his beard, then added a line to his own letter, composed on a small tablet. His pencil scratched and paused. Scratched and paused, every word weighed and considered before being added to the paper. The man set the pencil down. He clapped as a student correctly responded to a question. He unfolded the letter and examined it. He picked up his pencil and pushed on the eraser to send out more lead before continuing.
I wondered about the content of those letters. I tried in vain to read them. I wondered what type of person takes the time to write a letter these days.
Read more here
April 1, 2013
Inconsistencies
Evangeline Witherspoon removes one of the lipsticks from the plastic dollar store bag and uses her fingernail to work off the wrapping. She twists the base, watches the lipstick emerge, pretty and unblemished and new, a perfect forty-five degree angle of pure color. She stretches out her lower lip with her bottom teeth and rubs the lipstick back and forth before pressing her lips together. She studies herself intently in the bathroom mirror. Too pink, she decides, wiping off the lipstick with her lavender-scented handkerchief. She takes another from the bag and repeats the process. Too orange. Another. Taupe.
"What are you doing, Mother?" Her daughter Edna limps into the bathroom and squints at her "Why are your lips two different colors?"
Evangeline glances at herself in the mirror. Her top lip is orange. Her bottom lip taupe. She sighs. Edna, she is sure, is convinced that Evangeline is slipping. This lipstick incident won't help. Evangeline wipes her lips clean.
Read more here
"What are you doing, Mother?" Her daughter Edna limps into the bathroom and squints at her "Why are your lips two different colors?"
Evangeline glances at herself in the mirror. Her top lip is orange. Her bottom lip taupe. She sighs. Edna, she is sure, is convinced that Evangeline is slipping. This lipstick incident won't help. Evangeline wipes her lips clean.
Read more here
March 28, 2013
Palm Sunday
Evangeline Witherstead pauses just outside St. Christopher's Catholic Church and turns her attention to the daffodils struggling their way out of the thick layer of mulch suffocating the flowers. Evangeline scowls. Frank Difazio always applies too much mulch to the church's flowerbeds. In fact, Frank does everything generously: Lavishly bowing at the children whenever they drop a quarter in the collection basket. Accidentally kicking over the kneeler behind him in the middle of the Consecration. Laughing too loudly at Father's jokes, occasionally even going so far as to append a loud clap when something really tickles his funny bone. Honestly, Evangeline thinks now. The man is a doofus.
"Aren't they beautiful, Evangeline?"
"I beg your pardon?" Evangeline turns to see Deidre Jacoby smiling inanely.
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Kelly Garriott Waite on Google+
"Aren't they beautiful, Evangeline?"
"I beg your pardon?" Evangeline turns to see Deidre Jacoby smiling inanely.
Read more here
Kelly Garriott Waite on Google+
March 25, 2013
Spring From the Front Porch
Do you want me to tell you where the raindrops go when the sun shines bright and yellow busses are watery sidewalk reflections occasionally destroyed by bright red rubber boots?
Do you want me to explain deliberate cruelties, large and small? Thoughtless words. Torture and war. Poisons thoughtlessly scattered.
Do you want to understand that I have not done enough good so far in this life? Shall I rest easy in my discontent, knowing I never will because I value my own time too much to give it away generously?
Read more here
Do you want me to explain deliberate cruelties, large and small? Thoughtless words. Torture and war. Poisons thoughtlessly scattered.
Do you want to understand that I have not done enough good so far in this life? Shall I rest easy in my discontent, knowing I never will because I value my own time too much to give it away generously?
Read more here
March 22, 2013
The Next Big Thing
Thank you to Deb Batterman, author of Shoes Hair Nails and Because my name is mother, tagged me to participate in The Next Big Thing, in which writers get an opportunity to talk about their current works-in-progress.
What is the working title of your book?
Lights at the Sheraton
Where did the idea come from for the book?
I was waiting to pick up my daughter from work late one evening. While I waited, I watched the hotel across the street for twenty minutes: Which rooms had lights on; which had lights off. This got me thinking about the patterns we so easily fall into in our lives, and I began writing a story about two women, both stuck in unfortunate situations and how they suddenly are thrown together. At around the same time, I had a short story rejected by a literary magazine. I decided that the story fit with nicely thematically with the other and decided to combine the two into one longer story involving several different families.
What genre does your book fall under?
Literary fiction
Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?
I never think this far ahead!
What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?
The life-giving nature of change.
Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?
I self-published two digital books, one a series of short stories and the other five essays exploring the idea of home and community combined with a short story about the devastating effects of fracking. While preparing the books for publication took a lot of time and effort, I found it a relatively painless process. However, I was completely unprepared for the amount of time marketing takes up! If I gain more of a readership, I plan to continue to self publish. Despite the work involved, I enjoy the freedom and the control I maintain.
How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?
It has taken--and will continue to take--quite some time: We're in the process of relocating and half of my writing has been in moving boxes for two months. Bits and pieces of the draft are scattered everywhere: in my purse, in notebooks, on my computer, and in my brain. Once I can sit down with all the pieces in front of me, putting it together should be fairly straightforward.
What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
I hate to compare my writing with the writing of others. I will say I was very inspired by the novel-in-stories Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout and Karen Russell's book of short stories St. Lucy's Home for Girls Raised by Wolves. Both books, while quite different, share the quality the short story and have given me a new way to think about the structure of my writing.
Who or What inspired you to write this book?
I love the idea of connections, disconnections and reconnections. I enjoy exploring relationships between people. And I love to know the story of everyone I meet. If I don't know someone's story, I'll gladly give them one! I also think it's really important to consider a person's story. We're so quick to leap to impatience with people because we're putting our own needs first. I think if we were to know the story behind a person, we may choose to be kinder.
What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?
The importance of history plays a big part in the story. Flamenco dancing. Soft pretzels covered with huge chunks of salt.
And so I pass the torch to Lance Burson, author of
The Ballad of Helene of Troy. I can't wait to see what he's working on now.
What is the working title of your book?
Lights at the Sheraton
Where did the idea come from for the book?
I was waiting to pick up my daughter from work late one evening. While I waited, I watched the hotel across the street for twenty minutes: Which rooms had lights on; which had lights off. This got me thinking about the patterns we so easily fall into in our lives, and I began writing a story about two women, both stuck in unfortunate situations and how they suddenly are thrown together. At around the same time, I had a short story rejected by a literary magazine. I decided that the story fit with nicely thematically with the other and decided to combine the two into one longer story involving several different families.
What genre does your book fall under?
Literary fiction
Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?
I never think this far ahead!
What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?
The life-giving nature of change.
Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?
I self-published two digital books, one a series of short stories and the other five essays exploring the idea of home and community combined with a short story about the devastating effects of fracking. While preparing the books for publication took a lot of time and effort, I found it a relatively painless process. However, I was completely unprepared for the amount of time marketing takes up! If I gain more of a readership, I plan to continue to self publish. Despite the work involved, I enjoy the freedom and the control I maintain.
How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?
It has taken--and will continue to take--quite some time: We're in the process of relocating and half of my writing has been in moving boxes for two months. Bits and pieces of the draft are scattered everywhere: in my purse, in notebooks, on my computer, and in my brain. Once I can sit down with all the pieces in front of me, putting it together should be fairly straightforward.
What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
I hate to compare my writing with the writing of others. I will say I was very inspired by the novel-in-stories Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout and Karen Russell's book of short stories St. Lucy's Home for Girls Raised by Wolves. Both books, while quite different, share the quality the short story and have given me a new way to think about the structure of my writing.
Who or What inspired you to write this book?
I love the idea of connections, disconnections and reconnections. I enjoy exploring relationships between people. And I love to know the story of everyone I meet. If I don't know someone's story, I'll gladly give them one! I also think it's really important to consider a person's story. We're so quick to leap to impatience with people because we're putting our own needs first. I think if we were to know the story behind a person, we may choose to be kinder.
What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?
The importance of history plays a big part in the story. Flamenco dancing. Soft pretzels covered with huge chunks of salt.
And so I pass the torch to Lance Burson, author of
The Ballad of Helene of Troy. I can't wait to see what he's working on now.
March 20, 2013
Infection
"I dream in golds, shimmering rays of sunlight dappled with fairy dust." Lenora smiles and I almost feel sorry for her. "I dream in moonbeams."
Ray rolls up Lenora's left sleeve, ties a band around her upper arm, and places a red rubber ball in her hand. "Squeeze," he says, and she does.
The ball reminds me of that clown with the bright red nose and orange hair, two acute triangles protruding from either side of his head. "You remember Bozo, Ray?"
"Dude with the funny eyebrows? Smile the size of the Grand Canyon? He's Illegal now."
Read more at
Writing in the Margins Bursting at the Seams.
Ray rolls up Lenora's left sleeve, ties a band around her upper arm, and places a red rubber ball in her hand. "Squeeze," he says, and she does.
The ball reminds me of that clown with the bright red nose and orange hair, two acute triangles protruding from either side of his head. "You remember Bozo, Ray?"
"Dude with the funny eyebrows? Smile the size of the Grand Canyon? He's Illegal now."
Read more at
Writing in the Margins Bursting at the Seams.
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