How does a writer read?

Well, I can tell you how writers don’t read. We don’t read to be critical or negative or tear down another writer. Writers are generally encouraging and positive when discussing someone else’s writing.

That said, writers hold one another to a high standard. We don’t settle for drivel set on a page by someone who ought to be selling candles. We don’t appreciate a churned out effort made only for the sake of a paycheck. We aren’t always kind when discussing that type of writing.

Writers look for the emotion and depth of words presented on the page. We find the rest of the story that lives in the white space. It’s funny to me to listen to writers talk about books. “I think what he meant by that was . ..” “Clearly, she was talking about this because on page 54 she said that which was a foreshadow to this on page 97.”

How do we know?

Because it’s what we do. We play these games with words and explain and express and emote until the reader is so immersed they don’t even know how they got there. Unless the reader is a writer. Then the writer reader will see that which is not written. They will play the game and tumble along from thought to thought.

Here is a piece of a review of the novella by Tolstoy I wrote several years ago for 90&9, “Woven through this beautiful allegory of giving is a sense of common beauty. The beauty of family life and community breathe through every chapter. Tolstoy’s characters live simply, unburdened by the traps of possessions. They have one another. They have their work. They have God. What else could they need? They are not oblivious to the grand riches of the wealthy around them. Rather, they are satisfied with the richness of their relationships.” All that from a few pages of writing. Oh, but Tolstoy is so grand to read! You feel as though you are sitting at the feet of a great man when you turn the pages of his books.

Writers read to sharpen themselves. We like to see what else has been done. Not to copy one another, ever. But to find ways to make ourselves better. We love to read. We love to expand our knowledge, to find better ways to express ourselves.
We don’t despise shallow writing, but we do frown upon it. I find myself reading shallow books to distract me from reality when nothing else is available. I find myself reading real books when I have moments to revel in their goodness.

Writers love to read. Here are some specific examples of how I read, as a writer and some thoughts about what I have read. Perhaps you would like them, too. Let me know.

Albom Bestsellers Stick to Your Conscience
By Kris Newman
January 19, 2004
http://ninetyandnine.com/Archives/20040119/review.htm -


Tolstoy? Timeless!
What Men Live By
By Kris A. Newman
November 3, 2003
http://ninetyandnine.com/Archives/20031103/review_2.htm

I am a Writer.

I remember when I was 13 and working on writing something. A friend innocently asked, “are you going to be a writer?”

“Yes.” Definitive answer, but of course, what else? How could they ask such a silly question.

Over the years I have written many things. Poems, plays, stories, album and book reviews. Give me an occasion, give me an audience, and I’ll write something for you.

My answer to the “are you a writer” question has evolved, too. “I do some writing.”
As recently as last summer someone asked me what I was going to do with my English degree when I finally have it in hand. “I’d like to get published, maybe teach writing.”

I am learning now that one does not become a writer, one simply is. I am required to write for my classes. A certain particular level of expectation is placed upon me by my professors. I am not “doing some writing,” I am expressing through writing.

In Hallucinating Foucault, Patricia Duncker says, “The identity of a writer is always a subject for speculation.” That set me to thinking. Why is it so difficult to tell who a writer is? Because a writer is always changing, always absorbing the atmosphere, always experiencing something. A writer doesn’t go for a walk. A writer immerses themselves in the world touching the flowers, smelling the factory smoke, hearing the colors, feeling the music of the day. A writer is constantly becoming someone new.

A writer cannot be a distant friend regardless of how alone they appear. A writer will experience the lives of those around her. A writer feels differently than everyone else. A writer may try to closet themselves away, to be separate. Don’t be fooled by this silence. It is only in response to her depth of emotion that she cuts herself away. When she simply cannot bear the burden any longer, she must be alone to write.

A writer is never content, never satisfied, never finished. There is always something else pushing a writer to continue. Words haunt a writer’s mind. Floating above the common scene, words dart about waiting to be captured by the writer. Once the expressions begin, a writer cannot stop until the picture is painted. Completely.

I can no more just “do some writing.” I must empty myself of the emotions, expressions, experiences which have grown in me, around me, through me.

I am a writer.

Extra Special Birthday Blessings

How does a writer see a holiday?

Maybe it’s my Grandma’s fault for making holidays such a big deal, but I LOVE holidays! I always anticipate something good and find a different pace in my step, a new smile coming more quickly. I’m not talking about Christmas or Thanksgiving, I’m talking about every holiday – especially a birthday.

My birthday this year was a writer’s classic! No kidding. It was amazing. It made me think back to other birthdays and the pack of emotions they held.

I've had more than my share of special birthday blessings over the years. I have a birthday quilt stitched by a very special friend to tell a story, a purple paper weight, a handmade angel and other special tokens received through the years that fill my home with their charisma. I remember my 40th birthday with a smile. A former student paid for me to have a special dinner at an exquisite restaurant where I was treated like royalty. Yes, I've had more than my share of good birthdays.

But this year in particular I was made to remember my Sweet 16 Birthday. My Grandma thought that it should be special and so she invited all of my friends to stop by and made sure that I was going to be home. She cleaned the house extra clean. A fresh bowl of punch on the side table with a clean white table cloth. My favorite strawberry cake with Kool Whip proudly displayed. Candles burning in the candelabra.

I was upstairs doing homework – as it was, of course, Exam week. Grandma called me to come down to have dinner with her and watch a movie.

“Put that away for awhile and come and sit with Grandma, honey. It’s your birthday!”

I reluctantly put my books away.

Now, don’t think I was such a good student and that’s why I was holed up and studying. That’s not true. See, what Grandma didn’t know is that a couple of my friends at school had told me about the party. They asked what kind of liquor would be there and would my Grandma be gone. When they realized she would be there and there would not be any liquor, they laughed. They wouldn’t be there. How stupid to have a party without anything to drink and with an adult present. Ridiculous! True story. That’s the kind of friends I had.

I remember feeling very alienated and alone. Torn between my loyalty to my fabulous Grandma and the embarrassment she caused by suggesting such a thing to the kids who called me friend. I knew they weren’t really friends, especially when they behaved that way. But it still hurt. Didn’t it prove my lack of value that no one would bother to be at my party? No one thought enough of me to want to celebrate with me?

When I felt that way as a teen, I either drank away the sorrow or buried myself in a book. That’s why I was upstairs.

Looking back, I wouldn’t trade that night for a thousand parties with ten thousand guests.

Grandma and I talked and laughed and watched a movie, I don’t remember what, on TV. At some point we had cake and punch and talked about being 16. Grandma told me stories about her young life. I can see us sitting there surrounded by memories, “if these walls could talk, the stories they would tell!”

Sincere, genuine, real, healing love flowed from my Grandma to me. I felt like my worth was multiplied over and again by the way she loved me.

Sometime after 9:00, the mainstays of my foster family arrived – Pattie and the kids. Presents in hand, excusing profusely, “I had to work late. Sorry we couldn’t be here earlier. How was the party?”

I tried not to let the sadness show, “it just started.” I remember the gift they brought - a red flannel shirt (can you imagine me in that? I LOVED it!) and the sound of their voices singing happy birthday.

This year was full of depth and genuine love just like Sweet 16. The notes I received, calls, texts, Facebook messages made me feel like the guy on It’s a Wonderful Life, except I wasn’t dreaming. I was so blessed to hear the genuine caring poured out over me. Honestly. I was.

A writer hears those words as though magnified through the mist of memory. The good words have to crawl over the self-doubt to be heard. This year, they resounded like a cacophony of voices drowning out all else. From the latest of my adopted girls standing in the snow singing Happy Birthday while holding a flaming muffin, to random texts from people who I imagined would have forgotten I existed, to notes saying things like, “I’m glad you’re alive,” to the annual Birthday Choir Call, to a special dinner surrounded by Angel Baby voices and grown children smiles . . . it was an amazing week-end full of blessing.

Like that winter night when my Grandma showered me with her attention, I was again center stage and amazed at how much I am loved.

I often think of my Grandma and the love she poured into my life. I hope I can be as sensitive and as giving. I hope I’m worth her efforts.

Happy Birthday to me! I am alive!

Work-A-Day World

When a writer goes to work on any given day, nothing is ever the same as it was the day before.

To begin with, there is the sunrise outside the door waiting to be watched. I love to see each new watercolor day stretch out on the horizon. I do find myself enjoying it more in the country than I did in the city because I can see farther. Although, I have to tell you, watching the sun bounce off the buildings of downtown Minneapolis is pretty cool, too. Even on a grey day, there are nuances to the clouds that make me stop to consider their depth and purpose.

When we are at work doing the things that we must to pay the bills, we see things differently than you might, too. We hear our co-workers sighs and laughter and wonder what’s happening without us. We sing within ourselves as the hum of the day dances in our heads.

As a legal secretary, sometimes it’s very, very difficult to be a writer. Not the kind of business transactional law that I’m working with now, but the other stuff: medical malpractice. There were days that the human tragedy which immersed me pulled me deep into its sorrow and I could hardly breathe. I would have to find a place to pray so I could continue to face it. Useless, senseless, awful tragedy and bitter lives filled my screen day after day after day. I would awake at night fearful that some miniscule mistake I made would add to the sadness by losing the trial or undoing the settlement. Honestly. Writers feel entirely too much for that type of work.

Now is better. The files on my desk at the beginning of the day are put away, filed cleanly, settled in their spaces before I leave at the end of the day. Clean. Neat. Functional.

That’s the best kind of work for a writer.

Teaching was tough, too. I had to constantly concentrate on who was doing what and why. Each day presented a new set of needs. My heart hurt so badly for the young lives I was challenged to mold. What if I said the wrong thing at the wrong time to the wrong person? What if my encouragement was ill received and tore down instead of built up? What if I failed? This was their education at stake! One can never re-live a slice of their educational life. You either get it or you get passed over. I fretted often that I didn’t know the most important lessons. I prayed a lot then, too.

Now is better. The files on my desk at the beginning of the day are put away, filed cleanly, settled in their spaces before I leave at the end of the day. Clean. Neat. Functional.

I can’t say I miss the challenge, although I did enjoy the other seasons. I like this one better. It allows my creative mind to wander and gives me impetus to write. This is the best kind of work for a writer.

I know that this is where I should be. I see the blessing of the moment and enjoy it as it tells today’s story.

Casual conversations participated in or overheard confirm my suspicions. My writer’s ear is always sensitive to hear beyond the obvious. Time will tell how and when my life will become meshed with theirs. I can wait.

When a writer leaves work, they see the setting sun, the decorative sparkles tossed across the sky, the strangers hurrying beside them and smile. Words walk through the writer’s car looking for a pen and paper. I liked the train commute in Minneapolis for its opportunity to write and read. I like the drive now to give space to the words as they germinate.

You might just go to work.

A writer experiences the day. Tomorrow, see if you don’t notice the sky. What words would you use to paint it?

Welcome to work through a writer’s eyes.

Lovely Christmas Memories

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c9KpNznVLlY&feature=rec-LGOUT-exp_fresh+div-1r-2-HM

I remember when this video was new. It wasn't a video at all, actually, and YouTube didn't exist even in someone's imagination.

Grandma and I were sitting in the living room watching the Bing Crosby Christmas special. Grandpa may have been there, too, but I don't remember.

I thought it was so cool that David Bowie would be performing with Bing Crosby. It was like my generation and Grandma's generation meeting in the middle. I wondered if the children of my generation would have more peace than those of Grandma's.

You might find it odd that I would consider such a thing at that age, but if you knew the politics and information that I had been raised listening to, you wouldn't be surprised.

I wish that Grandpa could see that Russia is no longer the awful threat it once was. I wish he knew that the efforts of World War II had, mostly, paid off.

I wish I could tell him that the terrorist tactics begun in the 1970s had ended, but they seem to have redoubled their efforts instead.

Peace on earth? Can it be?

One life at a time, perhaps. If only everyone knew the Prince of Peace. If everyone understood His plan for growth and prosperity. Then . . . perhaps . . . every child could be made aware, could be made to care.

Thanks, David and Bing for a great Christmas memory.

Christmas Past and Present

Happy Holidays . . Happy HOLLYdays . . the merry bells keep ringing, happy holidays to you!

As Bing croons classically behind me, past and present clash in my little apartment.

The past, redundant with tarnished glitter, dusty pipe cleaners and slightly musty smells covers my floor. Once shiny glass ornaments whose glitter has been rubbed off in spots lay gently in beds of tinsel whose plush beauty diminishes when stretched. Picking carefully through the remains of decorations not packed well enough, I found two smiling Sunday School faces expectedly looking up waiting for their rescue. I remember each of the little boy faces so well and even remember the day the pictures were new.

“Who is that?” says my curious Anna.

“I know who that is. That’s daddy,” answers Mavrik looking over her shoulder.

“OH! Look at that one! I want that one!” In a blink, Anna’s attention has flipped the page from past to present.

The present, with its wonder and awe, easily overtakes all of that bringing new glitz, new shine, new essence.

With a “careful Baby, here let me help you” uttered over and again, we changed the shabby Charlie Brown Christmas tree to a point of honor in the center of a magical village. It even snowed in the village!

The countertop was transformed into a quiet place where Baby Jesus lay as piece by piece the Christmas story was told again. Eyes filled with amazement at the angels singing to the shepherds and wise men riding camels. No doubt. No critical analysis. No need to prove the truth. Just simple childlike faith. Reminds me of a scripture . . .

New Christmas stories are told, too.

“Who is that? Is that your Grandpa? Was he a soldier? Where is he now? Did he love you?” Mavrik’s unending questions tripped over themselves to be spoken as his mind raced ahead.

“Is that your Grandma? I liked her.” It didn’t occur to Anna that she had never, and could never, meet Grandma. Grandma was mine and so became Anna’s, too.

My camera caught Arthur’s reflection in Grandpa’s picture.

A friend helping me through grief told me once that the memories of those lost are always with you and as long as you relive the memories, the person lost is not really . . . lost. They remain with you. Whenever you tell their story, whoever is listening is taking a bit of the one you love into their heart, into their mind. That way, the legacy lives on.

“This is my Grandma and Grandpa who raised me. They let me live with them and they loved me very much. They would have loved you very much, too.” Serious faces tried to understand the difficult words.

“My Grandpa’s name was John. Who else do you know named John?”

“Daddy’s name is John. My name is Mavrik John.”

“Yep. Daddy was named for Grandpa and you were named for Daddy.”

“I’m going to be a soldier just like Grandpa.”

From her picture frame beside the commotion, Grandma smiled quietly. Gone perhaps, but never forgotten.

Silver Bells . . .Silver Bells . . . It’s Christmastime in the City . . .

Daddy's Hands

I wrote the piece below for a speech in class. Some of you may recognize some of it which I borrowed from my short story titled, "Daddy's Hands." I think . . . you might like it.

This picture I added?  Well, that's my Daddy on the left.  That grin?  That slouch?  Yeah.  That's my Daddy.  

========
There are those in my lifetime who have taught me lessons unintentionally. I have learned that bitterness has no place with peace. I have learned that anger must be, and can be, controlled if one desires good relationships with others. In the words of Andrew Bridge, I have learned that love and failure can exist together. I have learned the value of forgiveness.

These lessons I have learned from the difficult relationship with my father. If I were to listen to the pop culture icons, I would stand before you boldly proclaiming my right to be a victim. I would win your sympathy if I treated my children the way I had been treated. I could justify a cold heart and harsh words from the hurt I had received.

But that isn’t what I learned.

Sometimes memories have a way of surfacing at the most unusual moments. Two years after my father’s death, I was standing in a prayer circle when I felt the unconscious touch of my friend’s thumb along the back of my hand. For a moment, I was a kid again holding my Daddy’s hand.

My Daddy had big strong hands. He had fought to survive on the streets of our city, and did. His hands were scarred from barroom brawls, rumbles, and work. But when he took my hand and I walked next to him, the strength was gentle, reassuring. Often, I would feel his thumb rub along the back of my hand as if to say, “It’s alright, I’m here. Don’t be afraid.” His hands were like a fortress that surrounded and protected me.

Everyone knew him. He was big with a commanding stride, but that’s not why they respected him. He was friendly, kind, giving—if he was on your side. He was generous to a fault, giving away what he could have saved to build on. And Daddy made everyone laugh. He found something to joke about in every situation. One would think he was Italian the way he told a story with his hands; gesturing wildly like a pantomime to get his point across.

Daddy was wound up tight. It wasn’t safe to sneak up on him. Even when he was sitting “still,” his hands were always moving—tapping a Zippo on the table to the B.B. King beat in his mind.

I enjoyed being with my daddy, but then the bitterness in his soul began to eat at him. He almost seemed jealous (or was it ashamed?), when I began to prosper. Or, was it I that was ashamed, and Daddy that couldn’t bear it? Time and circumstance pushed us farther away from one another.

I wished for those younger days when I thought my Daddy could do anything, but found it difficult to watch him sinking into despair with me unable to help him. It was simpler to just live my own life. Certainly, there would be time to fix what was wrong. Years passed without a word.

I happened on him once at a store. We talked, like old days, for a little while. I wished again to find a way to bridge the gap, to feel the comfort of my hand in his bound together strong against the world. But Daddy was caught up in his world, and I in mine. As I left him, I kissed him, like always, “I love you, Daddy, call me and we’ll get together, okay?” Momentarily, he held my hand.

Seven years ago those hands stopped touching. The bridge too long untended could never be mended again. People told me that the best characteristics of my daddy would live on through me and my memories of him.

For a long time it was hard to remember the good. Like an archeologist digging for buried treasure I had to pull up the years of separation and all the hurt it caused; sift through the hard, uncalled for words; remove the anger directed at me that I didn’t create. My heart’s hands were dirty when at last I found the sculpture that remained in the mirror. He had molded me to be strong, love laughter, feel secure in an uncertain world and to love deeply, if not sparingly.

I was reminded of my Daddy’s hands the other day. I was crossing the street with my granddaughter when she reached up and said, “hold my hand, so we don’t get lost.”

I think I have my Daddy’s hands.