What We Hang On To

I’ve been working on revisions to a chapter, and while looking for additional details to add I went back to a letter my parents sent me from January, 1977,  just after I returned to Sligo from Christmas break. Actually it was a tape recording that I transcribed a couple of years ago, but I thought there might be something in it, so I opened the file and started reading.

For a long time after my boarding school time ended I looked back on the experience only from my point of view. With a sense of anger and bewilderment, I’d stew over what my parents had done to me. My stance has changed significantly, of course, as I’ve grown older and better understand what they were thinking and going through. Reading the letter yesterday I gained a whole new level of understanding. I could hear my parents’ voices on the tape again, and it hurt to think of them all those years ago worrying whether I got back to school safely, was there anyone to meet me, and was the Alaskan moose sausage spoiled by the time British Airways found my lost luggage.

And then there is the plea to write and thank my grandmother for the Christmas gifts. “We had a letter from Granny. Granny is very anxious to hear that you’re in Sligo again and wants to hear from you so please do write to her and please thank her for the Christmas presents. She’s very anxious to know if you liked your underwear and your gloves, so please do write a letter of appreciation to Granny because she went to a lot of trouble to get those.

Granny would have shopped up the town in Ballygawley, Northern Ireland, or ventured by Ulsterbus into Dungannon, a larger town close by. Either way it would have been an effort. As luck would have it, I happened to have an appropriate photo in the archives:

Christmas 1976, Anchorage, Alaska

 

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Q&A With Author Lynette Benton

I met Lynette on Twitter some time ago when looking to expand my writing universe. What immediately grabbed me was her direct approach in providing actually useful answers to such questions as “How do I grow my list of followers?”.  I decided to do a question and answer session with her.

Where are you from?
New York. It took years for me to adjust to life in New England, but I’ve come to appreciate it.

What’s the latest news?
Interest in autobiographical writing is expanding enormously, so I’m teaching it in more and more places.

A revised edition of my interactive booklet, Polish and Publish will be released later this winter.

I’ll be turning over my memoir, My Mother’s Money, to a professional editor at the end of January 2012. (Sighs of relief.) I’m a writing instructor and oft-published writer, but I wouldn’t dream of calling a book finished until it had been edited by a professional at least two times. Editors see weaknesses in the manuscript that the author can’t spot.

When did you first consider yourself a writer?
Probably since college professors singled out my writing ability and enrolled me in a special program for so-called “gifted” writers.

What inspired you to write your first book?
Writing my memoir resulted from knowing I had an unusual, suspenseful experience that would grip readers. People who hear the story say, “Wow! So then what happened?”

The other memoir I’m writing is about working for 11 bosses in 11 years at a single institution.

Is there a message in your book that you want readers to grasp?
To rise above the hundreds of thousands of good writers out there requires skill and resources. If a book isn’t getting readers, it might not be the fault of the story, but the way the story’s written.

For example, one of my students with a degree in literature is writing a mystery novel. He writes well, and the story’s got potential. But he opened with long descriptions. He didn’t know how to construct strong, tight scenes. He gave too much irrelevant information and had no idea how to build tension or avoid redundant language.

That’s what learning the craft is about.

What books have most influenced your life?
Perhaps surprisingly, two that come to mind are The Man Who Loved Only Numbers and Deep Time. I’m captivated by cosmology—mathematical and scientific explorations of the origin, properties, and probable fate of the physical universe.

What books are you reading now?
77 Reasons Why Your Book Was Rejected, by Mike Nappa, an author, agent, and editor. I consider it a “must read.”

I recently finished The Memoir Project and Dirty Secrets, a very well-written memoir. I reread a lot of books by authors I love (like Barbara Pym, Georges Simenon, and Natalia Ginzburg), and books about writing memoirs and life stories.

Are there any new authors that have grabbed your interest?
I’ve got a couple of students whose writing blows me away. One woman read the class the opening of her memoir about a hoarder. It was atmospheric and suspenseful. That’s hard to pull off in 500 words, but she did it.

A poet in the same class just started writing poetry 3 years ago at the age of 86. He’s so good he’s already been published numerous times.

What both these writers (and all really fine writers) have in common is power in their writing, that ability to deeply engage readers.

Has your family been supportive?
I married into an incredibly generous, supportive, loving family.

Do you see writing as a career?
Writing has always been a central part of my professional work. After I left my last full-time job, I began helping other writers, and I love it.

If you had to do it all over again, would you change anything in your latest book?
What a question! I might have targeted Polish and Publish to more experienced writers. They seem open to improving their craft. New writers often don’t realize their writing needs improvement.

Can you share a little of your current work with us?
A sample from My Mother’s Money? Hmmm. I often consider posting a fragment on my blog. But I’m ambivalent about exposing the story before it’s finished. (But I’m glad you asked!)

Who is your favorite author and what is it that really strikes you about their work?
Barbara Pym. She manages to contain a world in just a short phrase. My husband can do that, too—and he’s not a writer.

Is there anything you find particularly challenging in your writing?
Choosing the best structure for a book. I could do a whole interview on that topic alone.

Do you have any advice for other writers?
My advice for new writers is summarized in Don’t Submit Your Writing Yet—Please!
To experienced writers I say, keep doing whatever somersaults and contortions you’re doing to make good writing happen.

For more information, and to read Lynette’s articles, please visit her website at http://lynettebentonwriting.com

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Screwin’

I survived embarrassed and having to write, “I will not forget my homework” a hundred or, maybe, two hundred times. I’d written lines plenty of times in prep. Prefects, senior boys put in charge of bossing around the younger ones more than older brothers, loved to give out lines for minor infractions, and I infracted often. Sometimes they gave out essays, too, and I’d have to write a page on the sex life of a ping pong ball or snail or ball-point pen. The subject didn’t matter nearly as much as the creativity.

Some prefects were good fun. Like the one who interrupted prep to ask, “Who knows what screwin’ is?”

Some of the boys didn’t have a clue, and some did but were too shy to say anything.

“Come on, anyone?”

I raised my hand nervously. “That’s when you stick it in and grind round and round,” I said.

The prefect chuckled. “Ach, bejesus that would make you dizzy for sure,” he said.

Boys around me laughed.

 

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Thank You!

What a year it’s been. I had hoped and expected to have The Troubles actually finished finished, but I found some areas needed improvement and that has slowed progress considerably. I have but one goal. I don’t want to just publish a book. I want to bring out something really special, something that makes a difference. That takes time. Okay, more time than I expected but hey… 😉

Along the way I’ve met some incredible new friends and re-connected with old ones, and though I’ve slid into some dark patches I am very grateful to those who’ve helped and inspired me to keep going.

I have high hopes 2012 will be a better year. I have many projects in progress, and I’ve a desire to diversify my creative forces. I don’t know yet what that will produce, but I’m excited to get going.

So thank you all for your support. Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and warm wishes to you all for the New Year.

 

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If You’re Going Through Hell, Keep Going

I’ve heard it said that suffering is good for the soul, though I think some people take this idea to the extreme, incorporating it into their belief system that they then unleash on others. They point to great people in history like Winston Churchill, for instance, who once said, “We shall draw from the heart of suffering itself the means of inspiration and survival.” Does this mean we should wallow in pain? I don’t think so.

Common sense suggests that those suffering want relief, as Winston Churchill recognized when he also said, “If you’re going through hell, keep going.” I could not agree more. In many cases the first step to salvation is taking a moment to honestly consider whether the suffering is really as bad as it seems and then asking why. Once you know the why you can start thinking about how to fix it.

I’ve always believed suffering should be a temporary condition, but sometimes getting out is not as easy as it sounds. Churchill was at war with Germany. Not him personally but as the leader of Britain. He knew the way out of that particular hell was to defeat Germany, but as is always the case, the devil is in the details. Churchill didn’t do it alone – he had the people, outstanding strategists, determined soldiers, and the limitless industrial machine of the United States at his disposal. Personal hells are usually fought with slightly smaller arsenals.

There are times I feel I’ve waded into an ice-cold fast-flowing river. I’ve never crossed this river before but I’ve read as much as there is about wading rivers, I know exactly where I need to be on the other shore, and I’m an excellent swimmer. Besides, I see others crossing near me and many others who’ve already reached the other side.

The river soon seems much wider than I thought, but I’m determined. I feel like I’m doing things right, and I’m making good progress. But then my feet slip out from under me. The current catches me. I start pumping my legs and arms as fast and strong as I can, trying desperately to keep control. I hear someone on the far shore say, “Use whatever works for you,” and as I struggle to keep my head above water all I can think of at that moment is now would be a good time to throw me a rope.

The water tosses me like I’m nothing. Breathe! I remind myself, but just as I do, the rapids flip me over and I inhale water. I twist and come up coughing and gasping for air. “Help!” I scream.

Someone near me says, “Take my hand.” Though the grip is tentative, it’s enough to right me and, at last, I’m able to stand up and catch my breath. After all my floundering I’ve moved only a few feet towards my goal, but at least I’m safe for the moment though if I stay where I’m at I’ll either starve to death or succumb to the elements. I must move forward. If you’re in hell, keep going.

While I ponder the question of how, I see several other aspiring crossers swept away and I start to laugh not because it’s funny but because suddenly I can imagine pulling myself out on the far shore with my last ounce of strength only to have someone say, “You picked a bad to place to cross.”

I shake off the thought. I learned while writing my memoir, The Troubles, how destructive it is to presume what others are thinking. I was reminded, too, that while the right words can be helpful, actions are what count the most, and the most powerful actions are those that help people help themselves. Now that I’ve had a taste of what the river is like, I feel my confidence grow and I’m ready to plunge back into the rapids, mindful of the difference a simple but tangible act can make. I have no rope, but if someone else is helplessly caught in the current, I will offer my hand. It’s not much, but it may just be enough.

 

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Old Boy Spotlight – Elliot Eware

I’m always fascinated to learn how others arrived at boarding school and what they think now looking back. As part of my ongoing series of “interviews”, I am pleased to add fellow Pierrepont Elliott Eware.

Q. What’s your name?
A. Elliott Eware

Q. How did you end up at Pierrepont?
A. I ended up at Pierrepont because the local comprehensive school which I was attending at the time was pretty dire so the decision was taken for me to attend a boarding with the intention that it would impart some discipline into me.

Q. When were you there? How long did you stay?
A. 1981-1984 so three years.

Q. What was your first impression of the school? Were you scared, nervous, excited?
A. I was very nervous especially as I knew my parents couldn’t really afford it so the expectations on me were high.

Q. Was the school experience what you thought it was going to be?
A. The experience I put down to this day as perhaps the best 3 years of my life as it taught me the way to be truly independent and I was exposed to peer pressure for the first time.

Q. What was the most fun you had?
A. The most fun at Pierrepont? Can’t really put my finger on it to be honest it was all such a lovely experience. I was thrown into an environment mixing with a bunch of guys of different religions. races and creeds where I learnt so much about life.

Q. What was the least fun you had?
A. The worst experience was leaving and then going to a University which I describe as one of the lowest periods full of racist people in a depressing depraved part of town.

(even though Pierrepont was in England, I ask this because I’m interested in the answer, given that I spent four years in Northern Ireland during the Troubles)
Q. Did you feel the effects of The Troubles or what was to become The Troubles? If so, in what way?
A. The troubles in Northern Ireland did not affect me at all.


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Ping 2

See if this feeds properly.

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Ping

Hmm…weird issue. Did I work around it or totally screw things?

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Small as a Mustard Seed – Review

As an aspiring author I’ve been gorging on other authors’ work as a means to helping me write better. I generally get hold of whatever’s out there and figure out what I like and don’t like about it. Whether I like or dislike the subject is irrelevant – for me it’s the writing that matters most.

I first heard of Small as a Mustard Seed on Twitter while trying to expand my social networking presence. I saw a tweet by the author, Shelli Johnson, and decided to click on the link which took me to a sample of the book. Her opening lines got right into the story. Much more importantly, though, she hooked *me* into the story. I wasn’t just reading connected words that would reveal what happened next if I kept going – I was experiencing what was happening in the scene on multiple sensory levels.

From: http://shellijohnson.com/excerpts/small-as-a-mustard-seed/

“I ain’t afraid this time. I ain’t some kid don’t know shit from Shinola,” my father hollered as he stood in the driveway.

In the curve of his chest, pressed tight against the denim of his overalls, he clutched a black revolver. The other hand combed through the short dark hairs of his flattop. My father was six foot two, two hundred twenty pounds, and in the soft morning light, he cast a long shadow across the courtyard.

I squatted in the pasture, some hundred or so feet away, nudging the top of my head around one corner of the barn. I was ten that year, a slip of a girl, short for my age, brown-eyed and dark-haired. Storm clouds blackened the sky and a cool rain started to fall as I watched him crack open the gun’s chamber to check that it was loaded, smile ever so slightly, then snap it back closed.

Wow, I thought, what the hell is going on? Good writing pulls the reader to want to find out more, to read from page to page all the way to the end where, normally, the reader is rewarded with the climax. All too often, though, the reader has many “just get on with it” moments along the way. In Small as a Mustard Seed I felt rewarded on just about every page.

One of the things I like most about Small as a Mustard Seed is the author paints the scenes in a consistent manner, and by that I don’t mean they are all done with the same brush. I mean Shelli demonstrates absolute control over the story. She doesn’t just lob in explosions, puppies, and flowers in desperation and depend on the reader to conjure up whatever emotion prevails. Shelli artfully builds the scenes so that the reader experiences what she intends them to without it feeling like that’s what she’s doing. Nice!

Okay, so what about the characters then? The subject matter is hardly unique, but instead of using cardboard cutouts as place markers for the protagonist to jump over/react with/whatever, Shelli’s characters all have depth, even old Aunt Edna. What’s interesting is that she builds this depth without going out of her way to explain things. The depth unfolds naturally, enriching the reading experience.

That’s not to say the book is without flaws. I hit a few bumps and pot holes along the way. What I think is supposed to be a subtle plot idea becomes obvious early on thus the “aha” moment where it’s supposed to hit home doesn’t. There are also a few places where Shelli tried too hard to create a new color to paint a thought with and ended up clashing with what the reader was already forming. For example, “The wood rattled and sunlight blazed down, enveloping my sister like a halo.” I became distracted briefly, wondering why did she choose that word, “halo”? Maybe I just had trouble imagining a halo enveloping.

The paperback version is 208 pages which some might say is short for a novel. I’m on the fence on this one. On the one hand Shelli’s writing is tight meaning she doesn’t waste space, and I like that. I’ll take 200 pages of good writing over 300 pages of mediocrity any day. On the other, I do think Small as a Mustard Seed could have been a bit longer without making it bloated, particularly the latter part. Then again, I tend to go through *good* movie “cut scenes” wishing the director had left most of them in, too.

Fortunately for me the issues were minor. Even in hindsight I feel like I’ve had a solid, enjoyable and engaging read with Small as a Mustard Seed, and I look forward to Ms. Johnson’s next book.

 

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Libya

Since I was born in Libya, some have asked what I think of the situation there now, and I’ve been reluctant to speak out in depth mainly because I was so very young when I left that country. Yet as part of my memoir takes place in Libya it seems appropriate for me to say something, especially as I read that Libyan U.N. Deputy Ambassador Ibrahim Dabbashi has asked NATO not to dissolve the no-fly zone due to the question of internal stability in the wake of Moammar Gadhafi’s death and subsequent declaration of Libyan Liberation.

From what my parents recounted over the years, our time in Libya was actually very good. Our Libyan neighbors were both friendly and helpful, and Libya itself had much to offer. But when the war broke out and the Israelis trounced the Arab forces, Libyans went on the rampage, directing their frustrations against anyone they deemed a target.

“We moved to the city of Tripoli when he was about a year old. His father was with an oil company and I was in the Libyan Diplomatic Service, working with the Prime Minister, H.E. Mohammed Majib. My housekeeper, an Italian woman married to a Libyan, Anna adored Roger Jonathan, and often took him to a farm to see the animals and play with the butterflies.

The Six-Day Arab-Israeli war was the first experience the boy had of what gentle people, kind people, are capable of doing when there is someone strong to lead them into hell. Our street beside the palace of King Idris was a battleground and the boy watched the burning of most of the surrounding homes and businesses, the disappearance of Jewish friends, the bitterness of our close neighbours who lived in a complex of apartments specially designed for foreign-Arab diplomats.” Helene Nixon, The Boy the Butterflies Kissed.

My only memory of Libya was falling down in the Sahara desert somewhere and cutting my thigh on a broken Fanta bottle. So how do I feel about what’s happened in Libya?

Moammar Gadhafi came to power through a bloodless coup d’etat on my birthday, 1969. He was responsible for the terrorist attack on Pan Am 103, and, to a large extent, for funding, arming, and training the Irish Republican Army, too. But in recent years he’d renounced terrorism altogether. Then the “revolution” came along, and with our government’s support, it looks like Libya may become another Iran, or worse. But I’m an optimist, so I hope Libya becomes a free country, a place I could visit again, if I wanted to.

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