The Crab Chronicles

On Writing and Storytelling

I don't write a whole lot about the fact that I am a writer, because it seems self-indulgent and kinda creepy, but every so often I read something and get really inspired.

A few weeks ago, I finished a novel so huge and heavy that I had to prop it on a pillow to read it. I had not read a lot of Stephen King's books, but several of them were really enjoyable. I recently joined a book club, and soI read 11/22/63. Then I missed the meeting, because it was a day after I got out of the hospital, but so be it. I am still really glad I read it.

This New York Times intervew of the entire King family is a long read, but if you are interested in King, or in writing in general, you will likely enjoy it.

What the article reminded me is that what turns on a writer of fiction is the notion of story. You may think that's too simplistic. Fine. But it's true.

All writing is about STORY. 

I was trying to help a client recently and we got into an argument about this very thing. If you communicate with a lot of terminology that's not immediately accessible to your audience, your story is lost. I don't care if it's a 250 word blog post or a 500 page novel, the goal is to communicate.

When I was in graduate school I was pretty unpopular with the professors because I steadfastly maintained that telling a story shrouded in obscure or incomprehensible language was simply wrong and I wanted no part of it. So when I took a course on Wallace Stevens I clashed a lot with the professor. He thought Stevens was brilliant. I thought he failed to communicate clearly or meaningfully.

Here's an example:

Anecdote of the Jar

By Wallace Stevens

---

I placed a jar in Tennessee,
And round it was, upon a hill.
It made the slovenly wilderness
Surround that hill.

The wilderness rose up to it,
And sprawled around, no longer wild.
The jar was round upon the ground
And tall and of a port in air.

It took dominion every where.
The jar was gray and bare.
It did not give of bird or bush,
Like nothing else in Tennessee.

 

It still amazes me that we spent 2 or 3 class periods endlessly discussing that poem. I had the thought that if I set my hair on fire it would have been more fun. Certainly would've helped me stay awake.

My refusal to worship Stevens was just one of the many indicators that told me I should not pursue a Ph.D. - well, and the fact that I couldn't afford the tuition. I am pretty glad now I didn't even try, because I couldn't deal with the politics of a university. I had an uncle who taught at a small college for many years, and I know something of that world.

Anyway, I am not a literary snob. I am also not a rube. The fact that I firmly believe that the function of all writing is to communicate clearly, and/or to tell stories, is viewed as immature by a lot of highly educated folks. 

What I also find irritating is that teachers don't take the time to teach kids how to write. Teach them how to do research and WRITE. It will be the best preparation you can give them for life. When I was a sophomore at Farragut High School, I had to write a well-researched and footnoted research paper. It was the main focus of the sophomore year. I viewed it as a huge headache and resented it. However, I realized much later how valuable it was. [My paper, BTW, was about female spies during the Civil War.] No other class was as valuable to me once I got to college.

If you want to communicate something and have it remembered, you need to tell a story.You also need to use language that's clear.

When I was trying to help Michael with Biology last year, we found that finding well-crafted videos on YouTube about the topic was a great way to help him learn. Just spewing out information in a textbook doesn't help a child remember. STORIES are the way to go, even if it's seemingly silly, like Phoebe the Photosynthesis Shirker.

I am not alone in this belief in the power of stories. This article, The Science of Storytelling explains it well:

"We know that we can activate our brains better if we listen to stories. The still unanswered question is: Why is that? Why does the format of a story, where events unfold one after the other, have such a profound impact on our learning?

The simple answer is this: We are wired that way. A story, if broken down into the simplest form, is a connection of cause and effect. And that is exactly how we think. We think in narratives all day long, no matter if it is about buying groceries, whether we think about work or our spouse at home. We make up (short) stories in our heads for every action and conversation."

When I finished college, I got an ear infection the day I was supposed to be packed up and driving home. I had rented a huge Uhaul trailer and loaded all my old furniture from my little apartment into it, and I was trying to finish cleaning out the place, and my ear started throbbing. My dad was able to come to Athens with a friend, and drive me home, for about 6 hours. My ear was killing me, it was 100 degrees outside in an un-air conditioned car, and I needed to be distracted. So he told me stories, all the way home. 

It was one of the most terrible days of my life, and conversely one of the best days of my life. Thank God my father was a great storyteller.

When I was pondering all the issues that might arise after I adopted my son, I realized that I wanted to tell him a story about what it was like to live in an American family. Thus, I wrote Jack's New Family, so he would have a better understanding. He understood it in Russian, and later we read it in English. Stories are powerful.

Stories are life. Tell good ones. Tell stories that are understandable and meaningful.

Devotion

Devotion

They are separated by 62 years,

Not bound by blood, but by invisible ties

fragile from being stretched by old pain,

strong from knowing the value of devotion.

 

I didn’t labor, big-bellied with my boy. I flew

to find him, across the ocean.

He was a tiny alien creature, and yet

He was mine, the moment

we met.

 

He took names we chose for him, fitting seamlessly

into this girl world, our blue house among the tall trees.

 

He fixes her drinks, helps her in and out of the car,

the chair,

up and down steps.

She fixes food for him; advises; tells stories, and listens.

She lets her room be his sanctuary, her puppy his totem.

 

She is his, and he is hers.

I thank God for their mutual devotion.

 

She calls him her Knight in Shining Armor.

He calls her Granny, equally tender.

 

Nothing binds them together but love, but that is

more than enough.

 

 

July 2013

Carwash Stories and Publication

My 1999 Mazda has a cracked head gasket and it's been sitting in my driveway now for about 18 months. It also needs a new battery. I've been driving Mother's Highlander, which is a great car.

I've told Michael if he can make enough money this summer to get the Mazda fixed, he can have it. He can also go ahead and get his driver's license but I am waiting until school is out because I think it's a big distraction right here at the end of school.

His last day is May 23rd.

I expect he will spend most of the day on May 24th doing NOTHING.

Yesterday I told him to get out in the driveway after school and wash the Mazda. It had gotten a gunk of pollen on it that needed to be scrubbed off. He had never washed a car before. I didn't realize that until we were in the driveway and I had to show him how it was done.

If you click on the photo you can see the magnificent muculature on Michael's powerful left arm. Very impressive.

I told him when I was in college, every time I went home, Dad would wash my car in the driveway. I don't know why he was a bit obsessive about that.

He also didn't like to see bumper stickers on anybody's car. He was very peculiar about certain things, and propriety about the appearance of one's car or one's lawn was a big deal to him. He never would allow us to put political signs in the yard. We also couldn't put out Christmas lights. A wreath, at most.

Anyway, I digressed.

Not much else to report, except...

OH YEAH! Michael is a published poet! Check out his published poem Azure Blue. Very proud of him.

My Thoughts Today

No End

 

This is what I have learned:

There is no perfect love.

 

Love is like soil; filled with millions of grains -

Tiny stones worn through time, but

always there.

Whether boulder or sand,

substantial.

Waiting to grow things.

 

Death is not even an end to it.

Dad taught me that.

The tiny cord stretching from that world to this

Exists.

Unseen but unbroken.

I feel it.

I feel your arms around me, and hear your voice.

I look in the mirror and see your eyes.

 

Love can cover miles in a fraction of a second.

Love penetrates space, time, oceans, iron –

It is everything.

It can be anywhere.

 

I did not make a mistake in loving you, little girl.

I did not make a mistake in letting you go.

The agony of being a mother is letting go.

 

Only in the arena would you learn.

Only the harshest lessons would penetrate your soul, so encased in fences to keep the predators out.

I sought to spare you –

 protect you –

save you --

I forgot that stubborn spirit that kept you alive.

 

You think we are not in touch.

You think you are hidden from me.

You think we are far away.

You do not understand

the filaments of love

that cocoon you.

 

In my heart a niche awaits, sheltering

a flame which never wavers.

 I know you will see it one day.

 

My hands may be empty but God’s hands are holding you close,

and one day those hands will lead you home.

Soundtracks and Memory

This is National Poetry Month, so I wanted to share a poem. Even if you don't like poetry or think it's boring, read my poem.[Sorry about the double spacing; can't figure out how to fix that.]

Then, if you like it, read some more, like the terrific Mary Oliver.

Below, my poem [I hope writing about music isn't as useless as dancing about architecture...]

Soundtracks

I used to watch my uncles singing to themselves as they walked around the house,

old hymns like Were You There?

Were you there when they crucified my lord?

Took me years to realize these soft baritone voices provided comfort.

Mama and Daddy gone, memories fading, but the music still sounded in their heads.

 

I hear my dad’s lovely, solid baritone waving proudly as a flag, above the lake.

He never learned more than a few lines of any song, and he made up the rest.

 

When my uncle Lewis died

I was stricken with laryngitis so bad I could not talk or sing for more than ten days. Grief

is a funny thing.

I listened,

though, every time I got in the car,

I listened

to the searing guitar of Stevie Ray Vaughn.

Complex woven electric blues.

Lewis would’ve hated his music.

It didn’t matter.

Stevie Ray got me through that time.

 

I get songs or snippets of songs in my head and they soundtrack my life, even when there is no radio playing.

 

I saw a movie some years ago called Songcatcher, about the music passed down through generations in the mountain communities.

I had never heard any of those songs but I knew them all.

The first time I heard Cherokee drums, I found tears streaming down my face.

My body knows songs sometimes,

songs not in my conscious memory.

 

My granddaddy could play a country fiddle.

My grandmother McMillan’s family could sing in harmony.

Mamaw sang hymns at the piano.

Daddy sang go to sleepy little baby to me.

Those songs are inside me.

 

Here is how we get to the heart of anything:

We write songs.

 

I sang the Itsy Bitsy Spider to my son last night, even though his body is a man’s body now.

The Itsy Bitsy Spider is a caress of love, a melody of hope, because he goes up the spout again.

A tiny spider connects us.

I want him to sing it to his children, like it was sung to me, like they will sing it to their children.

Above, Dad holding me as an infant, plus Bruce.

Above, Michael in 2008.

Right, Lewis, me, and Dad, around 1989.

Salmon and Rocks

I have a ton of stuff to do today, so this will be a quick post, but I wanted to share a few things.This is Michael's last day of school before spring break, which is next week. We are not going anywhere, but we are doing some day trips, so I think it will be a fun week.

I made a terrific dinner last night, and so simple - it was a 15 minute prep time meal. I had bought some pretty salmon filets, and I cooked them in white wine, just poached them about 10 minutes. There was a little water in the pan but it was mostly wine. Mom taught me that trick. Then I made a little sauce of mayonnaise, dill, and lemon juice. We also had Mother's famous salad with mushrooms and feta. YUM. Michael ate a LOT of fish and salad.

I am trying to eat better. I want to get us eating more fish every week. It's much better for you. I also want to keep more fresh fruits and veggies. Since I'm not working in an office I really have no good excuse for not cooking more. I like to cook. It's just that I get caught up in writing or talking to clients and somehow the onions always end up burned. As Michael said, "It's an acquired taste."

The beautiful thing is, even if Michael SAYS he is not hungry, the way to get him into the kitchen, I've learned is to simply chop up an onion and saute it in some olive oil and butter [usually Plugra]. He comes sniffing around and says "Wow, that smells GOOD!" - every.single.time.  LOL

Of course, I then throw in some green beans, or asparagus, or whatever veggie I have on hand, and it's always good.

Michael had an assignment the other day to write a poem, and it was supposed to be a personification of something in nature. Well, if you read the poem, which is below, I think it's pretty obvious how he felt about the assignment. I laughed out loud when I read it.

Rock

By Michael Thompson

 

I’m a rock.

They think that I have a family,

But I’m a rock.

 

True, I feel wind and weather,

But I’m a rock.

 

Want to know where I came from?

 I would tell you  –

But I’m a rock.

I might have come from a volcano, but I have no brain

To remember because

I’m a rock.

 

It looks like I have a human nose, but

I smell nothing, because –

I AM A ROCK.

*************************************************************************************************************************

  Above, me and my armed guard brother, about 1963. No good reason to post it except I just like this photo...

Fun With Haiku

I love to write poetry, and still write it occasionally, and as I have grown older than dirt [cough cough, don't mean to disrespect dirt y'all] I find there are certain subjects that are best expressed poetically.

Which is good, because I stink at writing short stories.

I dated a guy some years ago who told me he liked to write very short stories, often just a few sentences. I read some of these "stories" and giggled. I told him he was actually writing poetry. He never spoke to me again.He inspired me to write a haiku:

He wrote tiny tales.

Tiny glimpses of his life.

Poems? NO! He cried.

When I was an undergraduate, I was thrilled to hear that a poem of mine had been chosen for the literary magazine, until I realized it was not one of my longer works, but just a funny little half-haiku I had dashed off.Here's the whole thing:

Brain-fried / stir thoughts / take a wok.  [brilliant, huh?!]

So I am writing some more haiku now:

***

Coco barks often.

Her tiny body wriggles,

Fluent canine dance.

***

Explosive sneezes

Fly out of us often now.

Cruel spring torture.

***

Bad Dust Bunnies breed.

That’s why I hate hardwood floors!

Carpet hides them well.

***

I did not feel like

Watering last night, so tired.

God sent rain instead.

***

Friday sandwich night.

Mother’s favorite roast beef.

Jersey Mike’s loves us.

***

And in tribute to one of Michael's favorite shows on TV:

Ghost Adventure guys.

Full-bodied apparitions!

Zak screams in delight.

***

Sometimes I see ghosts.

Spirits are all around us.

Don't go in the light!

Me and Ghandi, hanging out in London, 1988.

If you'd like to read more of my poetry you can see my friend AnnMarie's site, Vox Poetica.

Sarah's Eyes

I was very happy to hear that one of my poems is going to be published in December over at vox poetica, my friend Annmarie's wonderful site for poetry lovers. Annmarie has encouraged my efforts to get back to writing poetry, which I had not done in a long time, and I will always be grateful to her for that. During times of stress in my life poetry has been a great comfort.

Annmarie sent out an email a while back asking for contributions to a series called Contributor Series 7: The Confessional Diary of Bone. I love that title.

My poem is below. It was written about my great great grandmother Sarah Mahalie Nelson, a half-Cherokee lady who married my great great grandfather John T. Hasty well over a hundred years ago. For years, nobody in the family talked about the fact that she was part Cherokee. I believe some Cherokee women married white men in the North Georgia mountains, and thus didn't go to Oklahoma on the Trail of Tears.I don't have any diaries or letters from Sarah, and I know almost nothing about her life, but I feel sadness when I look at her photo, and that inspired the poem.

Sarah’s Eyes

 

I have come to understand that memory is biological.

When I look at the photos of my Cherokee great great grandmother Sarah,

her tiny skull,

her sad eyes,

 I feel her despair.   I have no words

for her story, only legends and suppositions, but her eyes –

Over a century, her eyes hold the truth.

My bones hold her stories, secrets.

She went deep into the mountains where they couldn’t find her

 and stayed off the tearstained trail.

She married a white man,

 took a white name, and bore him sons.

Her grandson/ my grandfather - Papa - he wore long limbs

from his father, a giant, angry man.

Was it the taint of mixed blood that caused Papa’s father

 to tie the hands of his sons and beat them bloody?

Papa stopped the carnage

as soon as he was big enough to fight his father.

Or was it anger at Sarah

 for turning away from her Cherokee family?

Papa turned away from that rage

and became a gentle giant,

a great warrior on the baseball field.

As an elder, he fed me bits of bread and honey

 and read me stories.

Like Sarah,

he loved the sanctuary of mountains.

 

I lost Papa when I was nine years old.

I feel Papa in my bones though,

in the beat of the drums when I go to pow-wows.

 I feel her inside me too, in those drums;

mute memories pulse in a newer heart, but

I always want to weep for what we lost.

 

By Dee Thompson

July 2010

 

 

Mea Culpa

I was informed a little while ago by my mother that I was a total pill yesterday. She's right. I was awful. I yelled at Alesia and Michael. I was a Bad Mommy and a Bad Daughter. I didn't do anything right.

I was doing what I swore I would never do - taking my stressed out state too seriously and lashing out at the people who love me.

I feel lower than a snake's belly.

The only thing that has kept me out of the loony bin for much of my life has been my ability to write. So here's a poem I wrote this morning.

 

For My Children

 

These are some things I want you to think about.

When someone says they are a friend, it may last forever, or it may only last a short time. You must not grieve over the lost ones, even though they hurt you. Or if you must grieve, acknowledge the pain and move on.

When someone acts very friendly, they may only want you to buy something from them. Be wary.

Crying is not weakness. Tears wash your soul clean.

You don’t have to do things perfectly. You do have to try your best. Make it a habit early, so you will not have regrets.

There’s an Italian proverb you need to ponder: “Those who don’t love you make you laugh. Those who love you make you cry.”

When I yell at you, it’s not really your fault. It’s a flaw inside me, and I am not a patient person. I always regret it later. I ask God to help me be a better mom all the time. I fail all the time. I still love you both more than my life.

As time progresses, I will yell more. I will say things that upset you, even though I don’t mean to. Try to remember that behind it all is fear, my rotten, old, rancid fear – and it’s not about you at all. When you can do that, you will have a valuable life skill, called Not Taking it Personally.

 

You must venture outside what is comfortable, or you will have a stagnant, unhappy life. Take chances. Risk.  Love with abandon. Try things.

Fail at things, but never call yourself a failure.

If I had not gone to Russia in 2003, we would not know each other. I had to take a risk, do something scary and uncomfortable. My reward – the two most important people in my life, you.

People will hurt you. I cannot prevent that. Never let them make you feel you deserved to be hurt. You do not deserve that. You endured a lifetime of hurt in your youngest years, and any hurts that come now need to be processed and abandoned. Feel the hurt, cry your healing tears, then let it GO.

Remember, God brought you to me, and God will never abandon you. Never.

Even if you can’t believe in God, believe in love. They are one and the same.

 

You have seen two kinds of lives-

Biting cold, poverty, dirt, hitting, shame, vodka, nudity, cigarettes.

And another life – warm days in January, green grass lawns, bicycles under blue skies, English homework, family dinners, and a small dog who likes to play kiss kiss.

It takes strength and courage to turn away from those early imprints. You are both stronger and braver than I have ever been.

You are survivors.

Remember the past and its pain, but don’t let it define you.

 

And I want you to understand and remember this, if nothing else -

You get to choose your own life.

Choose to seek God.

Choose to learn, not just from books, but from people.

Choose to feel your pain and keep going anyway.

Choose to love and be loved.

Choose.

Published Poem

Another hot day, with little to report. Michael made french toast for himself and Alesia this morning. He likes to cook and we encourage it. I am very proud of him.

The poem of mine published in the new book From 9/11 to a New Year is below. It was written last December when my friend Cindy LaJoy was on her amazing adoption journey in Kazakhstan.

Weathering

My old Mazda slices through the wet cold morning world

Windshield wipers thwock thwock.

I hate driving in rain. Anxiety underlines everything.

  The only beauty - tall pines fringing the ashy sky, a fit canopy

to my meditation cave.

  Far west, my sister/friend prepares to journey east.

 I know her journey.

Years ago I sped across the sky to my children.

Warehoused in orphan prisons, their faces engraved on my eyelids,

My only thought was Hold On, Mama’s coming.

 

Five years past, my daughter awoke to her first day as an American.

I cannot forget her - huge eyes, thick straw hair, white stick limbs,

mute behind her Russian language.

We lived in terror together, Mother and Daughter, bonded only

by paper and mutual longing.

Now we fit together like a pair of old shoes, comfortable from the long wearing, separate, yet working together.

 

My son says he misses snow.

We live in a place of rain, a place of tiny winters and lush, expansive summers.

 

Studying for a science test, I explain ice wedging to him by recalling the potholes everywhere in Kazakhstan.

I explain about rivers as he remembers the recent torrent in our backyard that swept away our stone angel.

I explain tributaries by showing how fingers connect to hand.

We talk of weathering, of erosion, of alluvial plains, of steep canyons rising from ancient rivers.

 

I am not a baby! He says indignantly at breakfast. I’m thirteen.

You will always be my baby, even when you have gray hair and a pot belly. My baby.

I labored in planes and fell in snow for you.

Time and water change everything.

 

By Dee Thompson

December 2, 2009

 
This is Michael ice skating on the flooded soccer field behind his orphanage. He is facing the camera. This was made in mid March.

PLEASE make a donation to Antares before this Saturday. We really need to get Diana here for treatment. I will be drawing a raffle winner THIS Sunday. If you want to mail Laura a check, just let me know so I can include you.