For the past few months, I have been tutored by a dead man. That is to say, I have discovered the joy, the pain, the humor, and the pathos that is James Kilpatrick's "The Writer's Art".
I don't know why it surprised me that a book about writing, written by a writer, could be so doggone INTERESTING. I expected to find a dry manual, quibbling fretfully over endless technicalities. Anyone who is familiar with James Kilpatrick is already laughing at me. Contrary to my naive assumption, Mr. Kilpatrick is one of the most purely entertaining people I have ever encountered. I firmly believe that if he wrote an instruction manual for the assembly of a desk chair, it would would be nothing short of riveting.
I immediately formed a bond with Mr. Kilpatrick when I read this section, taken from Chapter 1:
"Consider, if you please, an altogether admirable sentence: FOR BEST RESULTS, SQUEEZE TUBE FROM THE BOTTOM AND FLATTEN IT AS YOU GO UP. That comes off the side of a tube of Crest toothpaste. It is an eminently sound, serviceable, workaday sentence. It could not be improved by shifting "for best results" to some other point. I find it a sentence without a flaw."
Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth. What could be more humble than the unpretentious toothpaste tube? And yet, Kilpatrick chooses to elevate it to the best seat. I think (although I can't be sure) that this was the moment that I subconsciously chose to reverence James Kilpatrick. I hope this is not idolatry.
The Bible and the Writer's Art(in that order)are the two most important books in my life right now. They both hold a post on my nightstand and I usually fall asleep to the sight of one or the other. There are some surprising similarities between them, actually. Although I can't say whether every word of the Writer's Art is God-breathed, I do certainly know that it useful for teaching, rebuking, correcting, and training in write-ousness. I found myself in penitent tears after the section on writing dialect phonetically and swore never, never to try it again. I purified myself of pompous, too-large words that don't have any business in my sentences except a misguided attempt to impress. I spurned a good many "rules" of writing that are just silly, and now welcome a preposition at the end of my sentence with open arms.
I have emerged from the Writer's Art a humbler writer, perhaps even a better person. God bless you, Mr. Kilpatrick.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Monday, May 23, 2011
All Good Things....
... must come to an end. That goes for meandering story times, too.
This post is to announce, officially, my intention to stop posting my Ramona story on this blog. It came about this way: I started my "Magic Beans" story as a mere amusement, and never expected it to be more than 5-10 pages long. As it turns out, I slowly came to the realization that I have really formed a bond with the two principal characters, and I wanted more for them than an off-the-cuff story time with no real plot. I have always dreamed of completing a manuscript, sending it in to a "real" publisher, and getting a legitimate, sure 'nuff rejection letter, to be framed and cherished forever (morbid, no?). It appears that the inspiration for my brilliant, under-appreciated children's novel has struck, in the form of a small girl and a large dog.
If you're curious, there IS a complete 1st manuscript of "Ramona and the Magic Beans" - but it lives in daily fear for its life because I have threatened to burn it to chalk so many times.
Writing for my new and hopefully improved second draft, now called "Frances and the Magic Beans" (I decided that I didn't want to crowd Ramona Quimby) has now commenced, but it will not, I am sorry to say, be posted on this blog for the public eye. All due apologies to the public eye. If you want to know how Frances and Stanley are doing, you can always send me a message, which may throw me into a fit of writing ... or depression, depending on the day.
As for this blog, I will probably continue to post on it very sporadically, whenever I feel like waxing eloquent, or waxing my moustache, or my cat... just kidding on those last two, I don't have a moustache or a cat.
This post is to announce, officially, my intention to stop posting my Ramona story on this blog. It came about this way: I started my "Magic Beans" story as a mere amusement, and never expected it to be more than 5-10 pages long. As it turns out, I slowly came to the realization that I have really formed a bond with the two principal characters, and I wanted more for them than an off-the-cuff story time with no real plot. I have always dreamed of completing a manuscript, sending it in to a "real" publisher, and getting a legitimate, sure 'nuff rejection letter, to be framed and cherished forever (morbid, no?). It appears that the inspiration for my brilliant, under-appreciated children's novel has struck, in the form of a small girl and a large dog.
If you're curious, there IS a complete 1st manuscript of "Ramona and the Magic Beans" - but it lives in daily fear for its life because I have threatened to burn it to chalk so many times.
Writing for my new and hopefully improved second draft, now called "Frances and the Magic Beans" (I decided that I didn't want to crowd Ramona Quimby) has now commenced, but it will not, I am sorry to say, be posted on this blog for the public eye. All due apologies to the public eye. If you want to know how Frances and Stanley are doing, you can always send me a message, which may throw me into a fit of writing ... or depression, depending on the day.
As for this blog, I will probably continue to post on it very sporadically, whenever I feel like waxing eloquent, or waxing my moustache, or my cat... just kidding on those last two, I don't have a moustache or a cat.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Ramona and Winston Churchill III
(This is a story I wrote some many months ago. The company where I work had an opening in the accounting department. Hopes were high that they might actually hire a man - a young man - to fill the position. This would have been an interesting development for several people of the female persuasion. Ramona and Winston Church III was my speculation of what might happen if they did. Note: They didn't.)
Once upon a time, there was a girl who was occasionally witty, consistently addle-pated, and for the most part good-tempered, named Ramona. She worked a moderately interesting and steady job as a customer service representative. Each day brought new challenges, but none so challenging as the dread Nielson Circle Parking Crisis. Homeowners, chafed past endurance by the rigid mandates of their parking by-laws, took out their anger and frustration on the unassuming Ramona.
One day Ramona was walking to the accounting department to ask a fiscal question. Usually she went to Carmella for all her accounting needs.
“Hey Carmella?” asked Ramona, approaching her cube.
The chair swiveled around, and Ramona was surprised to see, not Carmella, but a really very moderately attractive young man with a kind smile and a friendly eye – two friendly eyes, actually.
“Hello.” He said. “I’m not Carmella, but I’m happy to help. I’m Winston Churchill the IIIrd. I work here now. You must be Ramona. I’ve heard so much about your occasional flashes of wittiness and general good humor. Let’s be friends.” Mr. Winston Churchill the IIIrd extended a masculine hand, and Ramona found herself party to a warm and reassuring hand-shake.
“Are you really related to Winston Churchill?” asked Ramona.
“Yes.” Said Winston. “I’m his youngest grandson. But this is no time for chit-chat. You seem to be in distress?”
“Well, yes I am. A homeowner from that horrible Nielson Circle has been calling me all kinds of unsavory names because their car got towed, and I was wondering …”
“Say no more, most excellent Ramona. Park 10, I assume?”
“Why, yes - “
Winston picked up the phone.
“Sir. “ He said authoritatively. “You are much worse than a pig. You are much worse than a pig that has been run over by a car and left on the side of the road. You have insulted a sweet, sweet lady. And if I don’t see flowers on this girl’s desk within 48 hours, I shall put your home into foreclosure status, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”
Ramona heard some quibbling on the phone, and then a click.
“I don’t think you’ll have a problem with that homeowner anymore, ma’am.” Said Winston.
“Oh my.” Said Ramona. “I was just going to ask what his account status was.”
Then next morning, Ramona came into work and found two flower deliveries on her desk. The first was a hideous pot of carnations with no card. The second was a beautiful bouquet of gardenias, with a note signed only WCIII. Ramona smiled. She felt that her job was about to get much better.
THE END
Once upon a time, there was a girl who was occasionally witty, consistently addle-pated, and for the most part good-tempered, named Ramona. She worked a moderately interesting and steady job as a customer service representative. Each day brought new challenges, but none so challenging as the dread Nielson Circle Parking Crisis. Homeowners, chafed past endurance by the rigid mandates of their parking by-laws, took out their anger and frustration on the unassuming Ramona.
One day Ramona was walking to the accounting department to ask a fiscal question. Usually she went to Carmella for all her accounting needs.
“Hey Carmella?” asked Ramona, approaching her cube.
The chair swiveled around, and Ramona was surprised to see, not Carmella, but a really very moderately attractive young man with a kind smile and a friendly eye – two friendly eyes, actually.
“Hello.” He said. “I’m not Carmella, but I’m happy to help. I’m Winston Churchill the IIIrd. I work here now. You must be Ramona. I’ve heard so much about your occasional flashes of wittiness and general good humor. Let’s be friends.” Mr. Winston Churchill the IIIrd extended a masculine hand, and Ramona found herself party to a warm and reassuring hand-shake.
“Are you really related to Winston Churchill?” asked Ramona.
“Yes.” Said Winston. “I’m his youngest grandson. But this is no time for chit-chat. You seem to be in distress?”
“Well, yes I am. A homeowner from that horrible Nielson Circle has been calling me all kinds of unsavory names because their car got towed, and I was wondering …”
“Say no more, most excellent Ramona. Park 10, I assume?”
“Why, yes - “
Winston picked up the phone.
“Sir. “ He said authoritatively. “You are much worse than a pig. You are much worse than a pig that has been run over by a car and left on the side of the road. You have insulted a sweet, sweet lady. And if I don’t see flowers on this girl’s desk within 48 hours, I shall put your home into foreclosure status, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”
Ramona heard some quibbling on the phone, and then a click.
“I don’t think you’ll have a problem with that homeowner anymore, ma’am.” Said Winston.
“Oh my.” Said Ramona. “I was just going to ask what his account status was.”
Then next morning, Ramona came into work and found two flower deliveries on her desk. The first was a hideous pot of carnations with no card. The second was a beautiful bouquet of gardenias, with a note signed only WCIII. Ramona smiled. She felt that her job was about to get much better.
THE END
Monday, August 30, 2010
Chimpanzee Charlotte
(This one is me again - I mean Ramona again). This story has an interesting story that goes with it, if ever you wish to ask me about it. Otherwise, just enjoy.)
Once upon a time there was a girl who ran away and went to live with the chimpanzees. She called herself "Chimpanzee Charlotte". All the chimpanzees thought she was kinda weird and mostly ignored her sign-language and pantomime advances. Eventually, she got so annoying that they decided to eat her. And the best part is - chimpanzees don't eat people.
Once upon a time there was a girl who ran away and went to live with the chimpanzees. She called herself "Chimpanzee Charlotte". All the chimpanzees thought she was kinda weird and mostly ignored her sign-language and pantomime advances. Eventually, she got so annoying that they decided to eat her. And the best part is - chimpanzees don't eat people.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Ramona and the Escape from Thursday
Once there was a day called Thursday, and it was so boring that everyone banded together to escape from its dreaded clutches.
"Courage, friends!" said Ramona, the leader of this daring exploit. "If we don't find a way out of this blank doldromy (made-up word), we'll perish in a most unpleasant fashion."
The way out of Thursday was riddled with nap-traps and grogasauruses, but eventually Ramona and her heroic companions stumbled upon the trap-door that led out of Thursday.
"Zounds, it does a body good to stumble on something!" said Ramona.
"Yes!" said her companion Danae. "I haven't stumbled on anything in years ... or at least, ever since Thursday started."
"Where does the mystic portal lead to?" Queried Valeria, the most sensible of all the companions.
"Either to Friday .... or to certain death." answered Ramona. She wrenched the trapdoor open and a gust of frigid air bust through the dank stillness of the Thursday air. "Who's with me?"
"All!" shouted everyone simultaneously.
"Then let us go forth, with our battle cry - I'll lead the way!" said Ramona.
Then did they all go forth, gnashing their teeth and voicing their terrible battle cry: "FOR AMUSEMENT!!!"
Their fate is unknown.
THE END
"Courage, friends!" said Ramona, the leader of this daring exploit. "If we don't find a way out of this blank doldromy (made-up word), we'll perish in a most unpleasant fashion."
The way out of Thursday was riddled with nap-traps and grogasauruses, but eventually Ramona and her heroic companions stumbled upon the trap-door that led out of Thursday.
"Zounds, it does a body good to stumble on something!" said Ramona.
"Yes!" said her companion Danae. "I haven't stumbled on anything in years ... or at least, ever since Thursday started."
"Where does the mystic portal lead to?" Queried Valeria, the most sensible of all the companions.
"Either to Friday .... or to certain death." answered Ramona. She wrenched the trapdoor open and a gust of frigid air bust through the dank stillness of the Thursday air. "Who's with me?"
"All!" shouted everyone simultaneously.
"Then let us go forth, with our battle cry - I'll lead the way!" said Ramona.
Then did they all go forth, gnashing their teeth and voicing their terrible battle cry: "FOR AMUSEMENT!!!"
Their fate is unknown.
THE END
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Ramona and the Red Shoes - THE END!
"A girl like you shouldn't have to carry her own groceries." said a voice behind her.
Ramona didn't quite know what she felt when she turned around and found herself looking up at the tall figure that looked, sounded like, and in fact was, Adrien Grody.
"What are you doing here?" asked Ramona flatly. She reflected that it was the most cliché, obvious thing she could have possibly said at that moment. "Figures." She thought.
"I have something to give you. You were kind of hard to track down, but I had some help."
Adrien glanced across the parking lot, where a familiar man with a long beard and a perfect-fit, size 4 pair of penny loafers was leaning up against the driver's side door.
"You went to the Magic Man?"
"He came to me. He said he felt like he ought to look after you. I asked him what I should do. He told me where to find you, and he suggested I give you these."
Adrien pulled out a box and handed it to her. She held it while he removed the lid to reveal a pair of vibrant, red shoes.
"Oh no - " said Ramona, "not more magic shoes. Never again. You can just give these right back to the Magic Man because I'm not putting them on."
"They're not magic shoes. They're plain, old, ordinary shoes that I picked out from the department store, although they are bright red and fabulous. Also, they are exactly your size."
"I don't understand. Why are you giving me un-magical red shoes?"
"The Magic Man said he told you, when he gave you the Red Shoes, that the magic would only last for 12 hours. After that, you had to sprout your own wings of self-confidence, remember. Don't you see? You already have everything you need. The shoe fits, Ramona ... you just have to decide to wear it. I really hope you will."
Ramona took one of the red shoes out of the box and looked at it. It seemed the most beautiful, yet frightening image she had ever laid eyes on. It was a symbol of the dizzying unknown. If she said yes to the red shoes, she might be on top of the world ... or she might be at the butt end of a very cruel joke. Did it mean a happy ending, or the beginning of a wicked satire? She was at the precipice, and the choice lay entirely, without question, in her own two hands.
She looked up at Adrien.
"Well." she said. "I suppose I'd better at least try them on."
THE END.
Ramona didn't quite know what she felt when she turned around and found herself looking up at the tall figure that looked, sounded like, and in fact was, Adrien Grody.
"What are you doing here?" asked Ramona flatly. She reflected that it was the most cliché, obvious thing she could have possibly said at that moment. "Figures." She thought.
"I have something to give you. You were kind of hard to track down, but I had some help."
Adrien glanced across the parking lot, where a familiar man with a long beard and a perfect-fit, size 4 pair of penny loafers was leaning up against the driver's side door.
"You went to the Magic Man?"
"He came to me. He said he felt like he ought to look after you. I asked him what I should do. He told me where to find you, and he suggested I give you these."
Adrien pulled out a box and handed it to her. She held it while he removed the lid to reveal a pair of vibrant, red shoes.
"Oh no - " said Ramona, "not more magic shoes. Never again. You can just give these right back to the Magic Man because I'm not putting them on."
"They're not magic shoes. They're plain, old, ordinary shoes that I picked out from the department store, although they are bright red and fabulous. Also, they are exactly your size."
"I don't understand. Why are you giving me un-magical red shoes?"
"The Magic Man said he told you, when he gave you the Red Shoes, that the magic would only last for 12 hours. After that, you had to sprout your own wings of self-confidence, remember. Don't you see? You already have everything you need. The shoe fits, Ramona ... you just have to decide to wear it. I really hope you will."
Ramona took one of the red shoes out of the box and looked at it. It seemed the most beautiful, yet frightening image she had ever laid eyes on. It was a symbol of the dizzying unknown. If she said yes to the red shoes, she might be on top of the world ... or she might be at the butt end of a very cruel joke. Did it mean a happy ending, or the beginning of a wicked satire? She was at the precipice, and the choice lay entirely, without question, in her own two hands.
She looked up at Adrien.
"Well." she said. "I suppose I'd better at least try them on."
THE END.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Ramona and the Red Shoes - 10
Ramona stood in the grocery line, clutching her microwave popcorn and hot chocolate mix morosely.
"Adrien Grody and Mysterious Woman Disappear Into the Night!" a lurid headline cackled from the nearest tabloid mag.
"Igh." said Ramona. She turned the magazine around. The back cover promised a thrilling expose on the Red-Shoe'd mystery woman's Martian heritage and linked her to the unexplained death of a U.N. ambassador that had been dating Martha Stewart.
"Are last week's events an isolated blip on the celebrity radar, or does the Red Shoe Menace mean to strike again?" the article tag read. "Watch out, Adrien!" A grainy photo of Adrien Grody in sunglasses and smoking a cigarette appeared beside the text.
"Lady, if you're gonna be in line, be in line." said a voice behind her. A fat man with a "Dodgers" shirt and a 6-pack of Budweiser’s was glaring at her. "Read your magazines at home."
Ramona went red and scurried to the self check-out.
"I'm going to go home and eat nothing but pop-corn, and drink myself sick with hot chocolate and watch 'Lawrence of Arabia' 48 times, or as many times as needed for me to forget that this whole thing ever happened." Ramona thought to herself.
"Leave it to me to make a fool of myself in front of my #1 Hollywood crush. It could have been anyone else, but noooo..."
With no company but misery, she walked slowly out to her car and thought of the long, blank hours she had waiting for her when she got home. She had already taken down her 7 posters of Adrien Grody. Something even deeper than humiliation ached inside whenever she saw his picture - an ache that even Swiss Miss had not, as yet, been able to assuage.
"Adrien Grody and Mysterious Woman Disappear Into the Night!" a lurid headline cackled from the nearest tabloid mag.
"Igh." said Ramona. She turned the magazine around. The back cover promised a thrilling expose on the Red-Shoe'd mystery woman's Martian heritage and linked her to the unexplained death of a U.N. ambassador that had been dating Martha Stewart.
"Are last week's events an isolated blip on the celebrity radar, or does the Red Shoe Menace mean to strike again?" the article tag read. "Watch out, Adrien!" A grainy photo of Adrien Grody in sunglasses and smoking a cigarette appeared beside the text.
"Lady, if you're gonna be in line, be in line." said a voice behind her. A fat man with a "Dodgers" shirt and a 6-pack of Budweiser’s was glaring at her. "Read your magazines at home."
Ramona went red and scurried to the self check-out.
"I'm going to go home and eat nothing but pop-corn, and drink myself sick with hot chocolate and watch 'Lawrence of Arabia' 48 times, or as many times as needed for me to forget that this whole thing ever happened." Ramona thought to herself.
"Leave it to me to make a fool of myself in front of my #1 Hollywood crush. It could have been anyone else, but noooo..."
With no company but misery, she walked slowly out to her car and thought of the long, blank hours she had waiting for her when she got home. She had already taken down her 7 posters of Adrien Grody. Something even deeper than humiliation ached inside whenever she saw his picture - an ache that even Swiss Miss had not, as yet, been able to assuage.
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