Friday Night Lights: The Thing about Why

Shots echo.

Not many.

Just enough.

Congress votes down

new gun law.

 

 

Children dead –

six year olds 

remebered from Sandy Hook.

Once smiling faces

not enough to move

men and women

in big boy

and big girl suits.

 

Yesterday, an armed man

threatens the school

where I used to

substitute.

The police got him

before he ever arrived.

 

 

Blue strobes of light

flash around a house

and a boat with a man.

No answers as to why.

 

Explosion,

Texas,

Clover.

Why?

 

A lot happened this week. More than words can express. In fact, I could not find words to express how I felt about what happened in Boston, the Senate, Texas and at a school where I used to substitute teach. The moment I found out I thought of Sandy Hook and September 11, 2001.

Journalists are busy right now. They will answer the who, what, when and where.

The why is harder.

Why would someone set off bombs?

Why would someone limit certain people access to guns?

Why are innocent people killed?

Why are children killed?

There is no certain answer.

Only this:

We, the writers, compose to explore the why.

By Rebecca T. Dickinson

Thoughts, prayers and love for Texas, Boston and Clover High

Write like a Turtle, Edit like a Fox

Courtesy of http://fadingamericans.wordpress.com/featured-animals/green-sea-turtle/

The sea turtle, box turtles and large land turtles take their time getting somewhere, but they choose different paths, have a hard shell and get where they’re going.


Courtesy of http://www.frmheadtotoe.com/2012/10/fox-halloween-tutorial.html

The fox watches, waits and listens. Those are essential to editing. When you think you’re ready to send a piece out, step back into the grass and hear your story read out loud again.

Turtles are born with hard shells.

Most writers are not.

With time you build one. If not, you quit. Sure, there are still critiques that hurt to hear, but we need them said.

I need them said.

Turtles also move slow to get where they’re going.

Every writer, journalist and author sets out on a different path. Many writers have deadlines. I lived by deadlines at one time, and now I set them for creative work.

That does not mean you look for the short cuts.

Today, I smiled when I completed writing my longest story to date, 22 pages, When Tomorrow Comes. I began writing the story sometime between July and October 2011.

You say: Come on, Rebecca, it’s 2013 and that’s only twenty-two pages.

I say: Yeah, but it took a long time to figure out where the story was heading.

I knew I had a story about a mother who lost her husband and job as a financial advisor in the city. She lost her house, and her popular teenage daughter lost her prominent place at a private school. She attended a public school with a two-star rating online.

Those ideas took time to develop and unfold. Only in the last five months has the story really molded into what I wanted, and I’ve enjoyed writing it.

Sometimes I like to slow down and read over the last couple of paragraphs before I write again. Scientists do not want to mess up formulas and most that I’ve observed – on television – pour their solutions slowly into another container.

If the words invite you dance, then let them lead. Take slow steps. Watch the words pour on the page.

When I completed my story today, I felt happy. I have written many stories I am not happy with or were for the pure purpose of self-help during tough times. I never planned to use them for anything.

As I wrote back and forth between Catherine, the mom, and Tara, the daughter, I could not stop.

I must admit the story is not a first draft. It’s more like a sixth because I’ve edited it many times before I began writing the next section. Yes, I edit stories before I complete them, but every author is different. I do the same with my Elliot McSwean  stories.

In my approach to editing, I look like a fox.

  1. Watch

    Read through one paragraph or page at a time. Soak it in. Take in the scene.

  1. Poke your ears up.

    Listen. Read your work out loud. Then listen to someone else or a computer voice read it back to you. I use both of these techniques, which have helped me improve my self-editing.

  1. Slow Approach

    Have you watched an Arctic fox sneak up on a rabbit? A good hunter approaches its prey that never hears it coming.

    Be that way in your editing.

    As proud as I am of the fact I completed writing my story today, I know I will go back and slash out words and dialogue that just does not work.

    If you’re good, those unnecessary words and accidental punctuation won’t hear your backspace or return button go click-click-gone.

By Rebecca T. Dickinson

Thank you again to all of my readers who have stuck with me even though I haven’t stuck to my schedule. My mom is doing better and she is out of the hospital.

When We Write Letters, Part VIII: Letter to Mom

10-6-12 Canon Download 513

Dear Mom,

Will you walk with me for a few minutes in the garden?



Photos taken on my father-in-law’s farm late last summer where many beautiful plants and trees grow.

I think of you walking with me in the garden. Instead of shopping for dresses, we will look at ripples in the river. Don’t you see them dancing there? The goose took off, and his wings tapped the water.

You walk with me, though you don’t know it. When I find my peace beneath the trees next to the Catawba or when I am lost in the Blue Ridge Mountains, you go with me.

I wish we’d traveled together when I drove above the mountains in mid-winter. You could not tell wood from mountain side in mist so white.

You have asked me to go shopping so many times or for a bite to eat.

I did not go.

Now guilt burns.

You see, Mom, I live with you. I could not take money from you. My loving mother, you would not see it that way for you love and give in the way you can.

For now you cannot walk with me to see the trees blooming. Yes, Mom, I wish you could see the dogwoods blossom near the Greenway. Soon the bees will be shopping for honey.


You wished I would go to lunch when I put on my apron. The flour was poured into the mixing bowl.

“When will I spend time with you?”

“Here I am. We could cook,” I said.

A few days later you lie in your hospital bed. You and I, different women we are. Let us find a new way to live as mother and daughter. Until then, remember I think of you always when I wander between the trees and beyond the river.

I ended the When Write Letter Series a few weeks ago, but after my mother went to the hospital Saturday morning I changed my mind. One more was needed. You will notice this post and Thursday’s Thurspiration are connected. Thank you, readers, for your constant support!

Words and Photos by Rebecca T. Dickinson

Thurspiration: Strength to Stand

Spring has taken it’s time this year. It waits beneath the fallen leaves and frost at the end of March.

As April begins, we try to remember the last time we experienced a spring starting late in the Carolinas.

Maybe the seasons want us to wait and remember.

See death was not done collecting lives and scaring souls. It still had a say on Black Friday and Easter. For those left behind in the Purgatory between winter and spring, the grandmother tried to hide her pain, and the mother was asked to speak at her best friend’s funeral.

The mother dug beneath the black soil of her spirit. From it, strength blossomed so she could speak about her longtime friend. After all she died during a time Christian families celebrated as the renewal of life: the resurrection.

The grandmother taught me, the granddaughter, that our Christian faith speaks with a soft voice. We worship behind closed doors. We do not shout speeches, but we practice faith through action.

Let faith speak quietly, and let your hands make work.

I watched her fall – not once— but twice.

In my grandmother’s first fall, she faced a tough decision. As cheerful as she sounded on the phone, I knew beneath her stubborn determination to show strength it grieved her to have her loyal cocker spaniel of almost ten years put to sleep.

If you’ve ever owned or loved an animal, you know the mixed pain of anxiety, frustration, guilt and sadness that enters your heart and mind.

Summer Plays with pretend doggy

Summer plays with her Christmas toys.

She was ready to give away most of the dog’s things after her death, but she kept Summer’s bed.

You hear a scratch at the door. A nose pushes open the door. She licks up the leftovers underneath a toddler’s chair.

It takes strength to remember No More.

Mom lost her best friend. She was asked to give a speech in front of an audience.

My grandmother lost her dog. She still had to make food for Easter dinner and welcome Easter guests.

 In the hoped-for quiet days to come, she planned to make a cake for the veterinarians who had cared for Summer.

The test was not over for I would be reminded of what I’d lost and what I still needed to gain.

On the way out of my aunt’s house Saturday night, my grandmother, son and I tried to see the path down the stairs. Missing a step, “Mimi” fell. She did not break any bones or suffer any bruises.

I could not stand the thoughts lurking in the gray pools of my soul. A sad memory emerged.

I never interviewed my Grandfather and Grandmother Dickinson about their early lives. Their heroic stories I learned mostly from my father and second cousin for Sons of the Edisto.

Mom, who had not seen or heard much from her best friend in last few years, would have loved to tell their stories together.

Mimi, who has decades left ahead of her, still has stories, and I have a recorder.

There is a time for strength.

There is a time to write.

Then there’s the time to listen.

By Rebecca T. Dickinson

InspireMe: Where You Find Your Story


The house settled by the Ogle family in the Great Smokey Mountains near Gatlinburg, Tenn.

How will you create your place?

Where is it located?



How often have you traveled there or visited this place in your imagination?

Do you miss it when you go?


A downtown view of Gatlinburg, Tenn.

The truth is that the place does not belong to you. The place you write houses your characters.


Who are they?


Do they fall in love?

Do they face prejudice because they are from different ethnic or religious backgrounds?


Does one character enjoy science fiction and the other art?


You write their ending, but they do not belong to you.

Whenever I have thought of place, I look at art. There is a lot a writer can learn from photographers and painters. Since being a writer is about perfecting your craft, I think the education extends outside the boundaries of literature. As you might have noticed, I am a visual learner.


Just as I enjoy authors who write visually; for example, Joshilyn Jackson and Pat Conroy, I also look for artwork that moves and teaches me about place and character.


Where do you find inspiration?

Photos and Words by Rebecca T. Dickinson

Painted Blue: Beyond the Walmart Aisles

Painting by Brendan O’Connell. Courtesy of http://www.cbs.com.

I spent the night in a horse barn.

Years ago, I dated a guy who worked with horses. He  built an apartment within a barn of six stallions.

“Most of the girls where you come from would never spend the night out here,” he told me.

Most of the girls I knew – and I – grew up privileged. Going to Walmart was something to do on a late night when we were not ready to return home.

But, as artist Brendan O’Connell said on CBS’ Sunday Morning, the large shopping center is a place where you cross paths with people of all ethnicities and backgrounds.

According to Sunday Morning, O’Connell said he was attracted to the different colors you see when you walk through the aisles. He called it abstract expressionism or contemporary art.

The reporter asked why he was interested in painting the “mundane?”

The answer to the question is simple: the mundane, or everyday life, is not simple at all. Often, stories in people’s lives are – pardon the cliché — stranger than fiction.

O’Connell’s paintings do more than show vivid colors. It shows real people on an artscape.


“Everyday Vegas” painted by Brendan O’Connell.

On the nights I spent in my ex-boyfriend’s apartment within the horse barn, I did not look down on him. Instead I admired the work he did.

In my history, I was often disgusted by rich boys and admired the blue-collar boys who rolled up their sleeves, went to work and showed that off-color smile. Beyond personal experience, I saw people doing work a way in which I’d never experienced.

When I sat down to write a story entitled Mismatch in Apple Valley, it became my first look in contemporary writing about blue-collar people.

“You’re not blue-collar,” my mother argues. “You have a college degree, and by definition, you are white-collar.”

“You’re not quite blue-collar yet,” my husband adds.

Whether or not I am blue-collar does not matter. I am inspired by those ravaged by the economy, those people who pull up their sleeves and work in the rain and those who are still shoveling snow off the roads in the Midwest U.S.

I wanted, like O’Connell, to pick up a camera and zoom in on the everyday stories. There is plenty of drama and action for the pages:

Jo was laid off and thought about going to Tech. When they accepted his application, he found out he could not receive scholarships.

Why?

You create the reason.

Mary worked in the school district for sixteen years. The district closed three schools to meet its budget, and because those three schools did not meet testing standards.

Why?

Susie and Robert had a baby when they were seventeen. Six years later, she almost completes a two-year degree for administrative assistant work, and he begs her to drop out.

Why?

At first, the above situations sound mundane.

What does it all mean?

Dig beneath the surface and find out what the teaching job meant to Mary. What if she could not find a job anywhere else? What if the bank foreclosed on her house?

Who will come to put her furniture and pictures in the yard as if they never mattered at all?

O’Connell began taking pictures in a Walmart eight years ago when a member on staff “asked him to leave.”

Now he is a successful American artist from a town in Georgia.

Some writers and artists want to escape into another world while others want to take a closer look at a world painted blue.

Words by Rebecca T. Dickinson

For more information about Brendan O’Connell, visit:

Friday Night Writes: When the Stadium Lights Go Out

Josh Harnett thinks about leaving Kirsten Dunst on the football field in The Virgin Suicides. Thanks to Jake-Weird, http://3.bp.blogspot.com/

One man switches off the lights in the football stadium.

No one is left that he sees, but sometimes someone or something stays hidden out of the spotlight. He, she or it is not ready to leave.

But, as soon as Josh Harnett got it in The Virgin Suicides he left Kirsten Dunst alone on the football field.

As writers, artists, professionals, students or parents; everyone believes they are left on a cold, gray metal seat in a stadium lost to watching birds and bugs pick at leftover hamburger and hotdog buns.

The challenge we face only grows more difficult whether it is writing a query letter, making a character real or trying to figure out how you will mold your career, family and art together.

Yesterday, the lights turned off. The stadium, dark.

The hardest thing a person must do is to make a choice.

If you’ve read before, you know I am a mother, teacher, author/ writer and beginning my graduate work.

Last year, I was offered a job with which I fell in love, and my bosses have offered as many opportunities as they could. When I talk about the job, you would think I was talking about the love of my life. If you’ve been unemployed or someone in your family has been unemployed and worried about your child’s future, you discover a good job brings gratitude. Finding a job you love is a miracle.

I sat across from my graduate advisor for the first time yesterday. He said in my last semester I would have to quit my job to do the internship in the public school system.

I sank in the chair. I thought You’ve got to be kidding me. A long time ago I was a kid who highlighted her hair every other month, wore boat shoes and played sorority dress up until I discovered it meant nothing.

Those days of playing dress up are done.

I know outside of the current job I have now, my intended career requires certification and high standards in the world of teaching. During childhood, I played with two prominent items: my imagination to create stories and an art easel from which I taught my stuffed animals and cats.

Nothing has changed my dreams now.

The professor, in his wisdom, said my place of work may be willing to work with me and I should not have a problem receiving loans and scholarships to pay for school.

That’s not my first concern, believe it or not. I have to pay bills, too.

I sucked it up, went home and got my son. We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it, I decided.

Perhaps I’m being to bold. Maybe too honest. But I know many other writers are struggling to work and find time for their writing. I know other artists have children and think about time set aside for their work. They want to know, even after two-years or more of sweating, painting and of rejections, that they’re not the only ones fumbling around to turn on the spotlight.

Rebecca T. Dickinson

Sorry Friday Night Writes is a little late.

Friday Night Writes is an every other week column or article in which I share views or writing samples.

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