The Lone School Marm Speaks

A continuation of The Lone School Marm submitted for Icaras' Flight To Perfection

Of all nights that I had to trespass into the world of darkness it was this night. I had grown up in this frontier where the law was iffy at best. But Pa raised me to know right from wrong and we’d been able to hold our own against the various bands of criminals that passed through, sometimes enforcing the law ourselves.


But it had never been this serious, this personal. I returned to the school house to free my hostage students. I had the government money I had worked so hard to obtain and I was about to hand it over to a bunch of thugs to free them. I was prepared for a fight. I was prepared to kill. I was ready to die to save my kids, if I had to. I had also hedged my bets by asking Doc Shaw to form a posse to hang back in the woods to capture Dirty Dan and his gang of idiots as they made their escape. We had to protect the kids, especially the Hailey girls. Dirty Dan was very clear about his perverted plans for them.

When I opened the door to the school house, I was overwhelmed by the carnage I saw. Most of the children were left for dead and there was no sign of the Dirty Boys gang or the Hailey twins. I dropped the satchel and my gun and screamed for Doc Shaw. When I saw him and the rest of the posse tear out of the woods, I turned and ran into the school house to see if anyone was still alive.

Part of the posse went in pursuit of Dirty Dan and the Hailey Twins while the rest of us worked for hours tending the wounds of the injured and preparing the bodies for burial. The Preacher was among the posse, thank God, and was able to comfort the mothers who came for their children. It was well past suppertime by the time we had buried the dead and made sure the wounded got home.

I stood in the twilight and listened to the stillness. It was strange to stand in the empty school yard in this weird light. I felt tired, bereft, yet powerful. I knew that what had happened here made this school ground sacred and holy, the blood of children having been spilled here. I felt the cries of my students; the survivors and the perished propel me to act.

But, Doc’s parting words hung in my ears.

“Now, Suzanna,” he fathered, “Don’t you go gettin’ any crazy ideas about revenge. Your Pa didn’t raise you that way and we need you here.”

I remember nodding at him and seeing relief and a flash of skepticism cross his gray brows. I meant to follow his advice. I really did.

But once I was alone in between night and day, I knew what I had to do. It was written in blood on my apron, on my heart. I would find them with their guard down and kill them one by one. With the matter settled once and for all, I picked up my bag of cash, turned on my heel and headed home to prepare for war.

Remember Screen Beans?

They were really cool, weren't they? Of course, now, if you try to use them in a PowerPoint, you'll be mocked, perhaps openly. I'd prefer to be mocked behind my back, so I don't use them.

New Chapter!

Hey, everybody...I've added a new chapter to my novel, Don't Look Down. I haven't touched the thing in almost a year, but there you go! If you want to read it, let me know in the comments and I'll invite you. I'd just need your email address.

Semi-Colon Lament

I'm a fan of Kurt Vonnegut, although I haven't read much of his work recently. I stopped in the library at lunch and picked up Armageddon in Retrospect, which is a compilation of things he wrote that were never published. There is a delightful introduction by his son, Mark Vonnegut. In it he states, "If you can't learn about reading and writing from Kurt, maybe you should be doing something else." I tended to agree with that statement and the introduction put me in a mindset to start reading the rest of the book with my eye on word choice, rhythm, and structure.

This was all well and good and added to my delight at reading Vonnegut again. Until I read this line:

"My advice to writers just starting out? Don't use semi-colons. They are transvestite hermaphrodites, representing exactly nothing. All they do is suggest you might have gone to college."

Personally? I love semicolons; I think they add a bit of poetry to my prose. And yes, I'm probably showing off when I use them. So what?

Harumph.

I'm all about simplicity and brevity. I want to be as efficient with words as possible...except when I don't. And then I want to use semi-colons.

Am I being a baby about this? Are semi-colons pretentious? I want you to be honest with me.

Just One More Thing...

As you may have guessed, I have recently become obsessed with “Murder, She Wrote.” I discovered the show during Groundhog’s Day weekend when I was too drunk to sleep. I had a house full of people and didn’t want to turn the TV on, so I browsed the instant (just add water) movies and shows. I had just watched a Columbo episode with Leonard Nimoy as the killer and it really freaked me out. Talk about a cold hearted snake. Nimoy was almost too clinical of a killer. Also, Columbo used the murder weapon found at the scene to crack the shell on his hard boiled egg breakfast. I guess that makes him a hard-boiled detective. Anyway, it was creepy on so many levels, I decided to abandon Columbo and find something else to watch.

Netflix said, that if I enjoyed Columbo, I’d probably enjoy MSW. So, I took the recommendation and settled in to a 5 a.m. viewing. I started with season 1 and boy was it corny. But I remember Doc saying it was a show his mother enjoyed. Sadly, Doc’s mother walked on in 2003. As I watched the show, I felt this sort of warm feeling. My MIL and I didn’t always see eye to eye, which is typical of MIL relationships, I would guess. But watching this show made me remember things I’d forgotten about Mary.

Isn’t memory a funny thing? Some people like to listen to music to bring back the old days. Others might travel back in time through photo albums or journals. I am probably the least nostalgic person I know. I don’t like to relive the past. I prefer to play out the possibilities of my future instead of probing the painful past for memories and rolling them around in my mind like some kind of mental Jolly Rancher. Recently, however, I’ve learned the value of memory. Now that so many of my nearest and dearest have either left town or left this mortal coil, I try to look for memories to tie me to them.

It starts with dreams. I see them in my dreams. If they’ve passed away, I talk to them, but they don’t talk back to me. I cling to those dreams and the feeling that they were nearby again. I also recall what they liked and try to bring whatever it is into my life, even if it’s not really my cup of tea, just so I can be close to that person for a little while. Like watching Murder, She Wrote to bring my MIL back.

The interesting thing with MSW is that, when the show was on the air, I was probably totally outside of the demographic market. I was in high school and college at the time. CBS was in full-blown “Celebrate the Elderly” mode and it didn’t really speak to me. But as I watch now, I get a comforting feeling that I am watching MSW and experiencing some of the same reactions Mary may have had when she watched it.

Sometimes I try to think what Mary might have thought about what was going on. I don’t know. It makes me feel better. In my heart, I know I kept Doc’s parents at arms’ length. In hindsight, I wish I hadn’t. Doing things or experiencing things they enjoyed, I feel like I’m opening my heart to them for real. Perhaps, it’s too late and I’m closing the barn door after the horses got away. But you have to close that door at some point, don’t you? Even if the horses never come back.

But now, watching MSW is no longer an exercise in nostalgia for times that never were. But rather I’ve come to really enjoy it. I’ve found a connection to Jessica Fletcher. I’ve also found a role model in her. She’s a successful writer who travels the world and people invite her to become involved in whatever important task they have in front of them. That’s what I want to be. Even more so, though, I like the sweet way that she doesn’t take shit from anyone. She has no problem calling people on their lies in such a way that makes the liar fell like she deeply cares for him or her. It’s remarkable.

I typically prefer to assume if you look me in the eye and say something, that you’re telling me the truth. But as I’ve aged, I know that people can’t be telling the truth all the time. I like to pick my battles, but in the past, I’ve felt unarmed, not able to tell when I was on the business end of a snow job or not. But now, I have developed my instincts and I can tell when someone isn’t being completely honest. I still struggle with the confrontation part, but with Jessica’s help, I think I have gathered a vocabulary for calling bullshit without being mean.

So forgive me if in the very near future, I put my nose where it doesn’t belong or call you on your bullshit. It’s only because I love you and I want to be a part of your life, while we are both still here to enjoy it together.

I Can't Take It Anymore

I'm reading Michael Palin's diary and I just can't take it anymore. Here is a quote from the last passage I read:

At last an, as yet, uninterrupted day's writing ahead of me, a luxury which hasn't happened for a long time. Thomas leaves for his playgroup at 9:55. Helen takes William out to the shops. All is quiet for a bit--the sun shines in onto my desk, and I feel all's well with the world.

I'm going to finish writing this novel, goddammit. By November 6, 2008, two years to the day after I started it. I must find a way to spend my time at home writing.

Tomorrow Is The First Day Of The Rest Of My Life

Not a real dragon

The dragons have been banished. We are not sick anymore. But we are still repairing the damage to our huts. There was, however, a Christmas Miracle. Doc found almost a whole box of Immodium in the desk drawer when we thought we were out. I'll tell you this folks, if you live with more than one person, go ahead and splurge on the 24 pack, if you don't need it now, you will soon.

Tonight, the girls and I walked to the ice cream stand. This is the last week, you know. Next week is October and that means cool weather, windbreakers and hot cider. Well, that's what it means traditionally. It's been 80 degrees all week. I found myself wondering while I read their sign and waited for the girls' cones, that maybe they should stay open indefinately. Nah. It's time to close the ice cream stands.

Not in Florida, though. I hear tell those ice cream stands are open all year round down there. Big Orange was taunting me with that fact just today. "Well," I said, "That's fine and all, but how can you miss ice cream if it never goes away?"

It was a typical midwestern response and I nailed him with it. Part of the wonder of living in the midwest is brought about by all the suffering and deprivation. The cool breezes of October (Mother Nature, I'm talking to you), immediately lift all the oppressive humidity that hijacks our souls all summer. There's a snap in the air...that then leads to dry skin and sniffles. But December comes and there's snow! Some mosture to soothe the skin. And eveyone is so friendly in the spirit of the season.

And then, in January, those people who were so friendly in December use up the rest of your hand cream and you just want to pound them on the head with your snow shovel. You've blown your hand cream budget with the latest outrageous, nay fantastic gas bill and know you're going to have to deal with cracking and chafing for at least two more months, probably three.

But just as you're ready to lay a roundhouse with your ergonomically correct snow shovel to the head of this lotion hog, you remember: Hey, at least it's not humid. And you return to your work, satisfied that there are thankfully no mosquitos at the moment. So you can coast the rest of the season out with a self-satisfied smugness, but not enough to quench the need to see daffodils.

And there they are! Lovely. The rain and the mud and the tornado warnings...tornado warnings. Well, at least I'm not paying for gas this month! You stroll through the grocery and see the cook-out gear on display. Oh, you can't wait to taste something grilled. Is there any propane in the tank? Yeah...oooh! Corn on the cob. And you rush headlong into summer thinking, hey, it doesn't get humid for another two months, right? By then, you'll be acclimated.

Sure.

But that's a year away. For now we are in the honeymoon of winter. Drag out those halloween decorations and dust off those pregnant nun costumes (I know one of you has one...Dale?) and live it up. Afterall, in the midwest, things are always changing; you've got to be ready for it.

Eat, Drink, and Be Merry, For Tomorrow We Die

Mrs. Wishy Washy has gained access to Social Zymurgy and has started bossing us all around. Every Sunday, Big Orange will channel her and demand we complete a writing exercise. Here is the first one from "Yoga for the Brain," number 160:

You have just finished writing your autobiography, which includes 10 different chapters. Write a title of each chapter in the book.

Here is the Table of Contents for my autobiography:

1. Look How Blonde My Hair Is!


2. Limelight Is My Favorite Color


3. Pushing the Envelope


4. Musical Me


5. Upwrite


6. Me and Sysiphus We Got A Good Thing Goin'


7. Now That We Are Alone, I Can Say This...


8. Friends in Low Places


9. Philosophy Pie


10. Recipes For My Potluck Wake

I encourage you to complete this exercise as well, but I'm not a ball-busting bitch like Mrs. Wishy Washy, so it is only a request. I'm interested to hear what you have to say. And, in the spirit of the Funeral Meme, that last chapter sparked an idea. I'd like to tap everyone's epicuriosity and ask you all, what hot dishes, finger foods, and desserts would you like people to bring to your wake? Here's mine:

• Sloppy joe's, of course, with white enriched hamburger buns
• Baked pasta, preferable rigatoni baked in a foil pan, with mozzerella and provolone melted to a crisp on top
• Green bean casserole, not my cup of tea, but unforgivable if missing from a wake buffett
• Broasted Chicken and jo-jo potatoes.
• Veggie tray
• Cheese and crackers
• Olive Garden Salad and breadsticks
• Devilled eggs, again, not my taste but people love making these things for wakes, so let them.
• Norcia's rolls and butter
• Pumpkin pie,
• Brownies (no nuts and sprinkled with powdered sugar)
• Chocolate cake

My Therapist's Tactics Work!

Mainly, my therapist, Karen, is helping me to reduce the stress in my life, so that I don't spend a majority of my time acting like a cornered lynx. If you know me at all, you know that I'm under a great deal of pressure. All that pressure causes your girl Flannery to flip out, lash out, weep, fret, pace, pick scabs, eat poorly, snap at people and make bad decisions. I've been to therapists before and they've usually been of the type to help me try to figure out what's wrong, which was useless to me. I know what my problems are; I just didn't know how to work through or around them. Usually, when faced with an obstacle I invent a rash and risky strategy and leap before I look. Sometimes that works, but usually, it just compounds my problems.

So I was skeptical when I sat down in Karen's office for the first time. I was preparing to waste time exploring why I was depressed, not how to move on. She started out by determining that I was under a lot of pressure and that we ought to start off by finding ways to reduce some of the stress in order to alleviate some of that pressure. In fact I was so surrounded by pressure, I really was having trouble determining what she meant. She kept saying, "Let's try to reduce your stress." I'd be like, OK, but I don't see how you're going to do that. My stresses seemed huge and out of my control: my work sucked, my commute sucked, my money issues sucked.

The things she told me to do at the first session seemed minor and I doubted that they would do me any good. But in the spirit of progress, I did try a few things and they seemed to work. They worked so well, in fact, that for the second session, I brought paper and pencil and took notes. I've been game to try just about any of her suggestions, but there was one piece of advice I was very reluctant to enact. Karen suggested I read a romance novel and told me it would be a nice way to keep my mind on romance and not lose sight of all that could be torrid/turgid in my life. I have to say, I am baring my soul here, so please be gentle when mocking me in the comments section. She backed up her advice by quoting studies that said women who read romance novels were happier in general.

I smiled and nodded and mentally tossed this idea right in my mental trash bin. I've read romance novels before. I used to work the midnight shift in a print room and I'd get so bored around 3:30 a.m. that I'd root through the drawers looking for anything to read, a pack of gum, instructions for assembling said desk, anything. Fortunately the day shift girl kept a stock of Harlequin romances in the drawer. In my experience, here is the plotline for ALL romance novels.

• Priveledged woman is succeeding in life
• Priveledged woman meets maverick cowboy/artist/Scotsman
• They hate each other at first and/or they fall madly in love
• They break each other's hearts out of stupidity or miscommunication
• They both go back to safer lovers or decide to date that guy/girl his/her mother always favored and nagged about
• A tragedy strikes
• They realize they can't live without each other
• They set sail/ride/fly off into the sunset

Sometimes you could encounter a priveledged man and a maverick woman, but the plotlines rarely varied from this formula. Frankly, I'd rather read the instructions for putting a desk together.

A week or so after she gave me this new suggestion, I found myself at the library with the girls. They were playing in the children's section and I told them I was going to dash over to the audio books to find some books for my commute. This is another of Karen's suggestions: to make sure I always have some book or music to escape to while driving. She also recommended that I make sure my car is my haven. Since I've followed those instructions, my commute has become a dream; it is my time to reflect, to drive, to learn, to be entertained. I now look forward to driving to work.

Anyway, I had to pick quickly since I hate to have the girls out of my sight in a public place. But this library is small and I could hear them over by the audio books, so I wasn't too worried about them. But I did try to choose quickly. I found a Hamish Macbeth mystery, The Death of a Maid, an Agatha Christie mystery, And then there were none, some old Sherlock Holmes radio shows, and, on impulse, Impossible, by Danielle Steele.

It took me a while to get around to listening to Impossible, but eventually I did. I won't go into the plot details here because I can already tell you are too smart for this piece of shit. It was so redundant, it broke all the rules of good writing (and not in a good way), it was predictable, it was clunky, it was stupid. I did not feel more romantic about my life at all. This book pissed me off, insulted my intelligence, and stretched my willing suspension of disbelief until it snapped in two.

But it did do something for me: I now know that my novel will be, if anything, better than Impossible. And you know what? Feeling superior is an aphrodisiac, so I guess in a way, this book did rekindle the fire in my writing loins. As for my other loins, maybe I'll try to find a romance novel with Fabio on the cover.

Unless you have any suggestions?

Violating Code 2.12 Of The APA Style Guide

2.12 Lingusitic Devices

Devices that attract attention to ->words, sounds, or other *embellishments* instead of to ideas are as inappropriate in scientifical scribery as a duck is in a wedding party, unless maybe you are Amish or French (Ooh la la!). Avoid heavy handed halliteration, rhyming, chiming, timing, poetic expressions spoken from the balcony of the summer home you used to go to when your children were tugging at your apron strings, and cliches like they were the plague. Use metaphors sparingly; although they can help simplify, clarify, and disentangle complicated matrices of ideas, in writing, metaphors are Sanjaya's, Anna Nicole Smith's, and bare breasts. Avoid mixed metaphors, especially when business and pleasure are inevitiable, and lock the barn door after the cows have come home. Avoid words with surplus and unintended meaning, (e.g. Dick for Richard), which may distract if not actually mislead the reader to water and try to make him or her drink. Use figurative expressions with the restraint of 10,000 monks under a vow of silence in the middle of a dry, dry desert, and colorful expressions with the care of a surgeon incising the torso of a hot guy with a six pack and thighs of steel; these expressions can sound strained or forced.

Avatque Vale, Kurt Vonnegut

I'm trying not to cry; Kurt Vonnegut is gone. Oh, shit. I am crying. This man changed my life, my perspective. He offered visions of things I'd never seen before but applied values to them that I shared. He was absurd, he was satiricle, he was obscene, he was creative, he was cranky, he was funny. The world will be a much more mundane place without him.

I discovered his writing in my first quarter of my first year in college. I was hesitant at first to read his most famous book called Slaughterhouse Five, since I am highly squeamish and overly sensitive to violence. So I started with Slapstick instead. I'd never read anything like it. I had spent most of my time in high school reading run-of-the mill fantasy books and some science fiction, but this book pushed me into an absurd world that I loved. It opened up my mind to the vast limitlessness of the imagination and the great value of the whimsical.

I read every book of his I could get my hands on. At the same time, I began reading John Irving's works with the same obsession, only to later find out that Vonnegut was Irving's graduate school advisor when they were both at University of Iowa's Writer's Workshop. I loved the stories of them hanging out together that I read in John Irving's memoirs. I would have loved to have had the chance to listen in on a conversation between those two.

Goodbye, Kurt Vonnegut. We grieve for you today. We have lost your voice of reason, your moral outrage, your sense of humor, your lovely wrinkly face, your imagination, your grasp of the ironic, your vision, your heart, and your wisdom. Thank you for all you have given us; God willing, we will preserve it.

*

Hi-ho.

*

Can You Guss What Ky Is Brokn?

How th fuck am I supposd to xprss myslf without it?

I'm My Mom's Joke Writer

Mom: Your Dad and I went to see Wild Hogs last night.

Me: Oh yeah? How was that?

Mom: Well, it was like a chick flick...only for guys. You know, they bond, they learn a life lesson, they have some laughs.

Me: Huh.

Mom: What would you call that? A chick flick for guys?

Me:...thinking: Should I go here? I Will...How about a Dick Flick?

Mom: THAT'S IT! I'm totally using that line when we see Bob and Pat...

*****

I love my Mom. She didn't even flinch.

Harrumph!

The APA Style Guide can kiss my grits!