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Permalink  GARLANDblog A Southern storyteller living in Brooklyn and loving New York City-—that perfect OZ.
There was a time I sought to become a poet, believing verse was in my soul, wanting out. But to be a bard I had to intuit, poetry is my soul, winging about. “Write what you know” has been the mantra of good writing almost forever. But does it stand up to scrutiny? It does not,argues Bret Anthony Johnston within the pages of the current issue of Atlantic Magazine—the Fiction Issue. Writing what you know,he says,is “writing to explain,not to discover,” and it negates the “opportunity for wonder.” To wonder can mean to question,think or speculate. But it also means to marvel at,to be awestruck by or to be amazed with something newly learned. The probing wonder,the kind that prods the mind and causes it to explore the unknown,leads to the exhilarating wonder,which manifests as the joy of discovery. When the energy that a writer puts into a journey triggers adrenaline that then moves like magic into the joy of discovery,how could that joy not be transferred to the reader? The characters may be real or fictional. Their lives could be lived well or recklessly. Either way,we are pulled in. They get to us with their inspiring example or by their bad-boy antics. It is like some disease we can’t—then don’t want—to resist. Our blood boils with fever at their machinations,and we thirst for what’s still to come. This is why no one wants a good story to end. We want to dwell in the story,to be part of the progression as it unfolds from a myriad of possibilities—for from possibilities we mine the wonder. A good writer will not attempt to corral the story,for she knows its wild spirit cannot survive if confined by the borders of her experience. It has its own life to live,and so,a good writer lets it go. This frees writers from worry that their life experiences might be less interesting than those of others. We are drawn to the mystery of what we don’t know. As readers,we are likely to have little interest in hearing the writer tell what he knows about his life—and a great deal of curiosity about the unknowns the writer explores as we go along for the ride. The human condition is a callout to curiosity,and intersecting somewhere down that curving path runs the road to great writing. Good writers don’t recite lessons they’ve learned. They hunt for answers. They chase their illusive unknowns,and the appeal is in the thrill of the chase. Make the reader a member of the hunting party. The sweat of active participation—how that rivulet feels running down your back,the musty smell of the horse’s hair matted underneath you,the foam from your steed’s mouth flying in the wind—all these details come from the writer’s experience and make the story real through their affect on your characters. Knowledge is the backdrop,the foundation,the supporting structure,and even the sensibility for what comes next. It is the probing-stick that we use to explore the unknown. But too often it also becomes the crutch we depend on. We think the details are the story,so we stop there,and that kills the story. Details are not the story. Good fiction writing is not storytelling in the sense of detailing what happened,no matter how beautifully we describe a scene. Good writing gives us a peek into what could happen. Experience is not the critical ingredient—wonder is. Good writers learn to let go,for the author does not tell the story so much as the protagonist lives it. As Johnston says in his superb essay,“Stories aren’t about things. Stories are things. Stories aren’t about actions. Stories are,unto themselves,actions.” Read Johnston’s excellent take on all this here:http://bit.ly/oe6XLx. Famed writer Grace Paley wrote a wonderful short story called “Mother.” And I do mean short—420 exquisite words. Words made exquisite by their eloquence. The thing about eloquence is that it’s so elegant. And elegance means distilled into perfect beauty. The story starts out this way: “One day I was listening to the AM radio. I heard a song:‘Oh,I Long to See My Mother in the Doorway.’ By God! I said,I understand that song. I have often longed to see my mother in the doorway.” Grace Paley was born in the Bronx to Ukrainian emigrant parents. I’m a Southern-born writer living in Brooklyn. We have nothing in common. And everything. I understand her emotional reaction to that song. The song of life and death. A dirge lamenting the passing of time and people. Her mother was already gone;mine is going. Slowly walking away from me,arm in arm with Alzheimer’s. We now live a thousand miles apart—her life is in Tennessee and mine is in the great City. More than miles,though,we are years apart from the time she stood young and vibrant in doorways as she watched over me. These things we remember of those we love:A stance,a look,a melodious phrase reserved just for us. “My Sonny Boy,” is what Momma calls me still. But for how much longer? Stand in a doorway. That’s the prime advice for surviving an earthquake if you are caught indoors when the swaying begins. Do mothers instinctively stand in doorways because they feel their world crumbling and sense the danger? Grace Paley heard a song on the radio and immediately identified with the artist’s theme. So do I. Her sense of longing for a mother now gone and the writer’s ensuing strength of emotion—“By God!”—I get it. I make the same connection. I feel it. We all must live it. This is the joy of the human condition:We each inhabit our own island;but when an item that is human-made washes up on our shore,we are pulled it. We are destined to pick it up. We trace its shape with our fingers. Feeling its smoothness. Marveling at its rounded curves and abrupt edges. Focusing on its rougher spots. Reveling at its creative design. Wondering if we could do better. Thinking. Learning. Growing. This is what a human is:We think,learn,grow;therefore,we are. Change,evermore. It is the necessary human component. Necessary,but,oh! How it hurts. Annie Sue Dinsmore was one of my all-time favorite people. She was a New Accounts Opener at the main office of First Federal Savings and Loan Association. At the start of my tenure there,I was placed under her tutelage. Annie Sue was a doyen of the bank and the community,while I was only a wet-behind-the-ears upstart Branch Manager in training. I had much to learn and Annie Sue was the ideal person to get me started off right. This was in the early 1980s,in Decatur,Alabama,back before S&Ls were legally folded into the banking system. To appreciate the historical role of S&Ls and how they helped financially limited Americans achieve the American dream of home ownership,watch “It’s a Wonderful Life,” the 1946 black and white movie classic,which was directed by Frank Capra and starred James Stewart. This week,while lying in bed on the night before my birthday and for no reason apparent to me,Annie Sue came to mind. Suddenly,I realized how much she sounded like Truman Capote. He died 27 years ago this month—August 25,1984—almost on the anniversary of my birthday. Both Annie Sue and Capote had high-pitched voices,but more than that,they perfected a certain tone that they masterfully delivered with more than a slight nasal affectation. Their similar voices likely came out of their similar upbringing. Both personalities were products of the interplay between upper middle class Southern culture and down-home Alabama dialect. By their later lives,the author from Monroeville and the banker from Decatur had even begun to look alike:diminutive and frail,but still powerful in poise and intellect. Perhaps they always shared a resemblance. I can’t believe it took me a quarter century to see those similarities. In Monroeville,Capote had Harper Lee,of “To Kill a Mockingbird” fame,to pal around with. In Decatur,thankfully for me but sadly for her,Annie Sue had to deal with me. “Honey,first you have to know when the certificate of deposit was started in order to know which method to apply to calculate the penalty,” Annie Sue patiently explained to me,adding that iconic Annie Sue grin. It was a smile that came through as honest,not mocking—and yet somehow with a hint of condescension at the same time. I read it now as carefully honed patience toward “good people” who just aren’t quite as bright as she’d hoped. Good people in the South means someone of similar station in life to you who also happens to be reasonably trustworthy. Both criteria must be met to qualify. Annie Sue understood the worth of a good smile. How it disarms anger. Builds trust. Exudes confidence. She could stare into the burning eyes of a customer who unexpectedly needed access to funds he’d tied up for two-and-a half years and inform him with no hint of hesitation that his penalty was going to be thousands of dollars. After delivering the fateful news,that smile of hers would appear,washing across the chasm between bank and customer to extinguish his anger like baking powder on a kitchen grease fire. “Are you sure that’s right,Annie Sue? I mean,are you quite sure-ah? It seems rathah excessive,” he might intone. Such words were last sparks of a smothered fire. The plea came complete with lips curled at the corners like tendrils of smoke—wisps fading as they realize the futility of resistance. “Oh,I’m quite sure-ah,” she’d say. And that was that. Annie Sue,I miss you. I am comforted when I remember your example. You have had a great impact on my life. I studied your face and actions the same way that today I read and study powerful authors. I could use your “quite sure-ah” reassurance in today’s post-911 world. It is a world so different from my 1980s Southern experience,for I live now in New York City,where the tenth anniversary of our national tragedy looms. I’m not too happy with the knee-jerk response to terrorists that we took as a country. Still,I know America will thrive and freedom will prevail. Renewal will come when America once again has the courage and confidence to look forward rather than backward. Maybe the tenth anniversary’s passing will let that rebirth of confidence occur. America survived the racial turmoil depicted in “To Kill a Mockingbird” and became a better country because of that struggle. In a similar vein,America will transcend her serious bout of introspection,and—like George Bailey in “It’s a Wonderful Life”—America will learn to look forward again with renewed passion for the present and with trust in the greatness still to come. Of that,“I’m quite sure-ah.” Last night I dreamed I was at my aunt Dell’s house and she was washing clothes. Such a common thing,this doing the laundry. But when did I start calling it “doing the laundry?” Doing is without depth or emotion and has no life or reverence in it. No,we washed clothes and that rings right and true. Washing,like hard and honest work,is a strong and active word that gets right down to it. If what I saw in my dream is a memory,the original scene unfolded half a century ago. My aunt Dell—Iva Dell—was much younger than I am now. Much younger than the widow she is now,with her multitude of great-grandkids. Was I dreaming in class while that basic multiplication was being taught? I mean,all those new cousins who I don’t even know. I wasn’t there. I was busy building a life apart. For me,only education mattered. Family could wait. “Don’t blink,” people say,“or you’ll miss it.” Blink or not,your family members fade away and are gone. They don’t wait for you or me. People also say,“You’ll always have the memories,” but that’s not true either. Is there anything more fickle than a memory? From its start it will lie to you. Witness a robbery—you and five other people—not ten minutes after the excitement ends no two of you be able to agree on the details. Give any storied memory time and it will ripen—that is to say,mutate. It will take what was once green and bitter,or tart and tangy,or in some other way fresh and alive and turn it into something overdone,all too sweet,verging on spoiled. And even if it crystallizes,becoming preserved like thickened blackberry jam—or like briny pickles hand packed in a jar in the heat of summer so that you can enjoy them once the cold winter comes—even then you’ll taste only a smidgen of the original. A suggestion of the natural sweetness of berries. A trace of the earthy taste of a cucumber. And with memories,at best you’ll end up with Continue reading Last Night I Dreamed Loew’s Kings Theatre opened in 1929 to a Brooklyn screening of “Evangeline” and closed in 1977 with the showing of George C. Scotts’ “Islands in the Stream.” Between those bookend performances,it gave joy and jobs to many locals. Perhaps you’ve heard of some of the ushers—Sylvester Stallone,Henry Winkler,Barbra Streisand? Ben Vereen danced on the stage while his mother worked there. Bob Hope performed,as did Milton Berle,Jimmy Durante,and Sophie Tucker. Located below Prospect Park in Flatbush,Kings Theatre is about to be renovated. When finished,in 2014,the complex will showcase a baroque-style performing arts center amid an outdoor garden. With seating for 3,600,it will be Brooklyn’s largest theatre and New York City’s third largest. This $70 million development is but one example of transformative change coming to the city’s most populous borough. The head-turning location deserves discussion,but Kings illustrates this important change:jobs are coming to Brooklyn. Continue reading Kings, Jobs, Jeers, and Jubilation in Brooklyn The “toot-toot” of the horn echoes back down the tube to the Jersey side, On the train we catch our breath at the sight spread out before us. Though platform people,eager for my seat,jockey for door position, When at last the train does stop,with that great gush of a sigh—swoosh! The Old South still rises,though not to battle. It rises now like Brigadoon—mysteriously—but with its own lowland accent. If you seek it,you won’t find that spirit in the New South’s cities or even along the interstates of today’s South. But that old South still tarries in the small towns,still lingers along the gravel-and-tar back roads of the open countryside,still calls with a voice as sweet as the air around a fencerow bent low by honeysuckle. It’s an attitude and it’s a way of life. Even if you don’t see it directly,look for its effects. For it carries weight,swaying the will gracefully,the way summer breezes Continue reading The Old South Rises Still A mood in me sometimes chases that golden glow that often bathes the high-rise buildings at sunset. It springs to life just as that dusky darkness descends over this mighty city. When it comes,my melancholy mood,it surrounds and comforts me like a fuzzy blanket deep in December,like blesséd breezes in the heat of August. It calls on me after my busy New York workday is done,dropping in like family or a friend who needs no invitation. Music is the tonic I take for these spells—I guess I’d call them longings—I get for a way of life that is no longer there. Or,at least for me,not here to be held. No,I don’t crave the musical sounds you might expect. I don’t long for Continue reading The Music of the (Southern) Night | ||||||
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