May I recommend to you...

In my home, there is a library. It is a wide, dark paneled room in the center of which is an impressive, stone fireplace. Two of the four walls are covered floor to high-beamed ceiling, in Brazilian wood bookshelves. These, of course, are covered in…books. Historical novels, short stories, books of poetry, anthologies, all resting amicably together. The third,west-facing wall is a bank of tall, slanted windows that frames the setting sun at the end of the day. Two leather chairs, equal parts strong and soft, face the aforementioned fireplace…

Oh, who am I kidding?

I have a living room that I call the “library.” There is no fireplace, stone or otherwise. No leather seating, no Brazilian wood. But, on one perfect wall rests floor to ceiling bookshelves. And yes, these are covered in all my favorite books, with room for pictures of my kids, and two antique typewriters (one of which I wrote about finding here: http://bethmwood.blogspot.com/2010/03/treasure-in-atlanta.html).

The books you’ll find in my library are there for a reason. They are books that touched me in one way or another. They are books I would recommend to you.

I would recommend, for instance, that you read To Kill a Mockingbird, and Water For Elephants, so that you come to know men such as Atticus Finch and Jacob Jankowski, and know, equally, the absolute goodness that can exist within people, fiction or not.

I would recommend that you read Monica Wood’s, Any Bitter Thing, to remind you that in this world, we have been conditioned by the media, by certain true events and by not so true people, and that sometimes our preconceptions are wrong.

I would recommend that you read Velva Jean Learns To Drive (and Velva Jean Learns to Fly...and Becoming Clementine) for the hope and determination on every page, and let it inspire you to find these things in yourself and to create your own happy ending.

And I truly hope that you will take the time to read Little Bee. It is, as of 9:44 this morning when I finished reading it, and wiping my eyes, my favorite story. Chris Cleave is now on my short list (not that he should care, who am I, after all?) with Graham Greene and Andre Dubus among a few others. The first page of Little Bee might not make you cry. But it did, me. Because he does so well what it is that I can only dream of doing. And that is putting truth into precise, beautiful, simple language.

I’m no expert, but I can tell you that I know a really great book within the first page. And sometimes, in the case of truly outstanding books, I know after the first line. Was this the case in reading Little Bee? I’ll tell you:

“Most days I wish I was a British pound coin instead of an African girl.“

Absolutely, yes.

It is a brilliant piece of writing and Chris Cleave makes it looks so terribly easy. I, in turn, am terribly jealous. But I will keep reading. Maybe some of it will rub off on this wide-eyed writer.

What book would you most recommend to me?

I'm No Fool...

Last night I was helping my son with some homework. He was working on an essay about The Giver (Lois Lowry). In the essay, Connor wrote about how people are unique. About how it is precisely this uniqueness in each of us that makes the world a better, more intestesting place. In case you are not familiar with the book, it is set in a future, “utopian” society. Individuality has been taken away from the members of this society. There are no colors, there is no personal freedom, and there is no love. In this world-view, personal freedom means mistakes. In this “utopia,” there are no mistakes. My son’s argument was that while mistakes can be bad, they are also what help us to learn. And it is how we handle these mistakes, these difficult times, that shape us into the people we are to become. He is so right.

I have made many mistakes. Unfortunately, it doesn’t make me any smarter than the average bear. Sure, I’ve learned from many of them, but I wonder: when will I learn to stop making them! Isn’t once enough – per topic, at least?

I’ve always told my kids to listen to their conscience. Remember Jiminy Cricket? Seriously, we all have that inner voice that helps us make decisions, tells us right from wrong. Why is it that sometimes the voice is so hard to hear? Maybe it’s because life isn’t black or white. There are so many shades of gray…so many possible choices, sets of consequences, good and bad outcomes, and everything in between. How then, do we know we are making the “right” decision every time a situation presents itself?

Maybe I can still use Jiminy Cricket’s famous song from Pinocchio with my 5 year-old:

I'm no fool, no sirree!

I'm gonna live to be 103


I play safe for you and me


'Cause I'm no fool!

Not so much for my tween and teenage boys.

I think as we get older, the voice becomes clearer – louder. Our heart chimes in, our mind speaks up, and maybe, just maybe, we listen. As a teen, I was still trying to figure out who I was, and I disregarded that voice like a stranger calling out for a taxi. Who cares? Not my concern. Even in my twenties and early thirties, that voice was difficult to hear over the “Mom!” and “What’s for dinner?” calls from various rooms in our expanding household.

Here in my late 30s, I am realizing that the voice in my head is my own. It is the voice of an intelligent, grown woman who has learned from her mistakes, who understands right from wrong and who believes in herself and her abilities.

I'd like to think I have no more excuses. But I guess it's important for even me to realize that I haven't made my last mistake...not yet. I am wiser, yes. But, as long as I'm alive, I'm still learning.

Now, how’s about that Root Beer Float for lunch…?

Making History...or not.

I’m suffering from wanderlust lately. I have this desire to just…go. I want to jump in my car, hop on a plane, follow the sun. It must be this historic winter storm that’s supposed to arrive within hours. It’s amazing what the media can do, isn’t it? Remember the big Earthquake prediction back in December of 1990? A self-professed climatologist named Iben Browning predicted that an earthquake measuring somewhere between 6.5 and 7.5 would occur in the New Madrid region of the Central United States. Here in St. Louis, earthquake kits were selling like hot cakes. It was a media frenzy. I was a freshman in college, and I actually stayed home from school that day, because I’d had a dream the night before that I was stopped in traffic on the highway, under a viaduct, when the earthquake hit.

December 3^rd came and went. No earthquake. In fact the entire week passed without a single incident. I felt like a fool. I’m sure I wasn’t alone. And now the media is telling us that this is the biggest storm in almost 30 years. They’re using words like “catastrophic” and urging us to stay at home. Early tonight I flipped on the Weather Channel. A reporter up in Chicago was standing on the side of a busy highway, not a snowflake in sight, gripping his mic like an addict. “Do not go out,” he warned. “Seriously folks, we’re out here tonight trying to save your life.”

Really? I’ll admit, the idea of losing power in this cold does give me an extra chill, but I refuse to run screaming to the nearest grocery store (besides I’ve got plenty of bread, milk and eggs). This afternoon, I drove to my regular 4:45 boot camp class. Picked up a pizza on the way home, and ran a few errands after dinner. No catastrophes. I appreciate the media giving us a heads up so that we can prepare, but this is a little ridiculous.

My kids are excited, as I was during the big winter storm of ’82. Back then, a bunch of us kids took orders from the neighbors and walked with our dads to the grocery store, pulling a sled of hot cocoa, milk and bread back home. It was a memory I’ll never forgot. Two weeks of sledding, snowmen, snow forts, and no school.

As I write this, my phone just rang…it was Parkway School District. No school for my kids tomorrow. Remember those days? I’m thinking about the projects I will still need to work on from home, and the phone interview I have with a PR firm down South for a Freelance project I’m working on.

But I digress. I think I’ll allow myself to sleep in just a little later, make coffee in the 12-cup pot, instead of the quickie 4-cup pot I use on weekdays to fill my commuter mug. And maybe make French toast with all the bread, milk and eggs in the fridge.

Stay warm! Here’s hoping I don’t have to eat my words!

Happy Friday, from Metal-Mouth

I am officially a metal-mouth. The braces don’t look quite as bad as I thought they would, but they feel worse.

Last night I took my oldest son to his High School Curriculum Night. I was a complete contradiction walking in the front doors... I felt OLD knowing my son would be entering highschool next fall. Yet there I stood in glasses and braces. Ha!

But I digress. It hurts to talk, which I’ve been known to do. But, as a writer, I prefer to put my words down on paper anyway. I love words. The craft of putting the right ones together, just so, amazes me. Some writers do it better than others, and we all have our favorites. I’ve written before about those perfectly constructed sentences that just leap out at you in the middle of a page. You know the ones; they just stop you in your tracks, make you think Yes, that’s it exactly!

These are a few lines that did it for me:

“They carried the common secret of cowardice barely restrained, the instinct to run or freeze or hide, and in many respects this was the heaviest burden of all, for it could never be put down, it required perfect balance and perfect posture.”

(from The Things they Carried, Tim O’Brien)

“Words, Caravaggio. They have a power.” (from The English Patient, Michael Ondaatje)

And my absolute favorite line (I swear I sigh audibly every single time I read or speak it):

“She was the hiss of steam, the clink of a cup. She was a certain hour of the night, and the promise of rest.” (from The Quiet American, Graham Greene)

There are actually many lines from many books. Short stories by Raymond Carver and Andre Dubus, Harper Lee’s To Kill A Mockingbird, and Jennifer Niven’s Velva Jean Learns to Drive, that hooked me from the very first line and carried me, cheering, through the last.

And, maybe not entirely apropos to this post, but good words nevertheless, a few lines from a favorite song (as well as a shout out to an old friend):

I will remember you,

Will you remember me?

Don’t let your life pass you by,

Weep not for the memories.

(Sarah McLachlan)

Hope all is okay in your world. Call me when you’re free…have a question for you.

But, I Digress (again)...It’s Friday! And you know what that means! So, raise your glass with me…Here’s to the craft of writing. May all our pens, pencils, and keyboards keep just a little bit of that magic alive.

Have a great weekend!

Golden Tickets

Season 10 of American Idol kicked off last night. For those who truly do have some talent, and might just need some direction and a few good connections to make it happen, the show is a huge opportunity.

What I wouldn’t give for American WRITER. I’m watching these guys and girls who are “goin’ to Hollywood!” and I know how they feel. I felt that way when I sold my first article, and with every publication since. To be recognized for the one thing that you love to do, your dream, is a heady feeling.

Throughout these past 10 seasons of Idol, there have been those few voices that gave me goose bumps, made me hold my breath, even brought tears to my eyes. For writers…and lovers of the craft, it’s the same way with words. It's that line in the middle of a story that stops us, makes us think, won’t let us forget. That’s why I write. That’s what drives me. To get that one feeling, that one thought across. That’s what it’s all about.

I'm at the point with my writing where I've gotten that "Golden Ticket" to Hollywood. Now what? Will I continue to push out a few essays a month and be satisfied with the few pieces I sell, the small checks that come in the mail? Or do I realize that I have an opportunity now to use my success to propel myself forward, to push myself to tackle new formats, different genres, bigger publications.

I earned my BA in Writing at Webster University in 2005. How I'd love to go back for my MFA in Creative Writing. Speaking of college, one of my old professors, Steve Lattimore, described the best stories as those where the writer “puts the protagonist up in a tree, throws rocks at him, and then gets him down.” Steve is speaking at St. Louis Writer’s Guild next weekend. I took his Creative Fiction Writing class, and had the privilege of getting my work torn to shreds by him.

This is one speaker worth your time. Truly. His workshop, “Missed Opportunities and Misunderstandings in Writing Fiction” is Saturday, Feb. 5, 10:00 am – Noon at the Kirkwood Community Center. A golden ticket to this event is free to STLWG members, and just $5 for non-members. See you there!