Autofiction is the word the French use for a form somewhere between truth and a kind of distilled truth. Memoirous is about memories, real and unreal. What we think happened.
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light:
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.
Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Ring out the grief that saps the mind
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.
Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.
Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes
But ring the fuller minstrel in.
Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.
Writing is a journey. Every time we sit down to begin a
piece or write the first chapter or the first line we are venturing into
uncharted territory. We never know how it is going to turn out. Oh, we have a
certain idea, like most pioneers or explorers. But, these journeys can take
detours; we have to react to circumstances and often go with our gut.
365 Affirmations for
the Writer is about listening to those who have gone before us and letting
them guide us with their insight, their own trials. They know the terrain, how
harsh it can be; they know where we can find water, shade, and rest along the way.
By reading what others have said, we can survey the path before us, count the
cost, and plunge ahead.
My
motivation for compiling 365 Affirmations
for the Writer is to offer light along the way. From day to day, week to
week, we are getting further inside our writing, further down the path.
The
book is 365 days of inspiration—quotes from writers and writing prompts. Here
is a what you might expect, from the first week in January:
**
365 Affirmations for the Writer is an
eBook I wrote to inspire us to write and keep us writing. If you’re looking for
inspiration for you or a fellow writer, then order today. Available from Amazon
as well as ALL other outlets.
Every
morning I read 365 Affirmations for the Writer by
Jane Hertenstein. It's a daily shot of encouragement in the arm.—Sue
Shanahan
November 3
Taking Risks
Writing is finally a series of permissions you give yourself
to be expressive in certain ways. To invent. To leap. To fly. To fall.
― Susan Sontag, New
York Times, “Writers on Writing”
November 4
Crazy or Insane
One must be capable of allowing the darkest, most ancient
and shrewd parts of one’s being to take over the work from time to time. . .
Strangeness is the one quality in fiction that cannot be faked.
― John Gardner, from On
Becoming a Novelist
Memoir writing. When did you realize you were a writer? Was
there a time when words jumped off a page at you? When did you decide you
wanted to tell a story?
November 5
Keep Going
The
only way you can write is by the light of the bridges burning behind you.
― Richard Peck, Newbery-award winning author of A Long Way from Chicago
**
Check
out 365 Affirmations for the Writer,
an eBook that will inspire you and keep you writing.
*The link takes you to Amazon, but also available through
As a nine to twelve year old girl in the Japanese internment camp, Santo Tomas Internment Camp in Manila, P I, I had many of the same experiences as Louise Keller. I was several years younger than Louise but the accuracy of Jane Hertenstein's novel is amazing. A friend gave me the book on Wednesday afternoon. I read the book Wednesday evening and was "blown" away. My memories came flooding in and my emotions flooding out. Ms. Hertenstein has done her homework. I would love to get in touch with her just to tell her how much I appreciated reading Beyond Paradise and that I have ordered six copies for my friends and my sister. I know of three different groups who are, at this time, are on their way over to the Philippines for the fifty fifth reunion of our liberation from the Japanese. By the way, I was born in Iloilo on the island of Panay in the Philippines!
The link takes you to Amazon, but available everywhere as an eBook. Paperbacks available through Amazon CreateSpace.
Available from Amazon CreateSpace and as an eBook Tens of thousands of homeless people walk the streets, forgotten, yet each with their own story to tell. Marie James, a 69-year-old bag lady, and a frequent guest at an inner-city mission in Chicago, sat with Jane Hertenstein through the summer of 1995 and recorded this shocking and moving story of life filled with sorrow, loss, mental instability, and hope. Her memoir will break one's heart, yet encourage and inspire. -- "Harrowing inside view of homelessness", -- Publishers Weekly, August 11, 1997
The link takes you to Amazon, but also available through
We begin with a sudden memory, follow it to see where it leads. Yet so many of us tend to ignore these flashes. We think later yet later on we might have forgotten or lost the relevance of the moment, the urgency that led us there. I recommend a process I call write right now. In the amount of time it takes you to brush your teeth, you can jot down the memory and an outline which can be filled in later. The prompts in this book are designed to spur memories, to get you writing. I’ll also direct you to resources, authors to read and study, and places to submit.
In this clever craft book, Hertenstein outlines a plan for busy writers to build a memoir in little flashes- those seemingly inconsequential moments that, when strung together, create a powerful memoir. Hertenstein provides a series of accessible yet thought-provoking prompts that can be completed in "the time it takes you to brush your teeth." Great for writers and teachers of writing as well.
Available only as an eBook
The link takes you to Amazon, but also available through
Many of us are looking to write memories—either in the form of literary memoir or simply to record family history. This how-to book looks at memoir in small, bite-size pieces, helping the writer to isolate or freeze-frame a moment and then distill it onto paper.
I have read this book twice, and highlighted extensively. As a new memoir writer who works in slice of life and brief moments, I find her approach helpful. Highly recommend to all writers of memoir. Enjoyable read!
I'll be teaching Holiday Flash at OCWW in Winnetka, Dec. 20 @ 9:30 - 12 noon
Freeze Frame: How to Write Flash Memoir, available through CreateSpace and as an eBook available EVERYWHERE. Order it today.* *The link takes you to Amazon, but also available through
Cloud of Witnesses hooks the reader with well-developed, interesting characters and snappy dialogue. The story features issues faced by many middle schoolers - coming of age, friendship, loyalty to family and classmates - but is set in the backwoods of Appalachia. The activities and language ring true in this slice-of-life tale about a region not usually featured in books. This is an important fish-out-of-water story about empathy and the dangers of and lessons learned from painting everyone in the same circumstances with the same brush. -- Marlene Targ Brill, best-selling author of over 60 children's books
Open my eyes on the welcome rosy shock of sunshine.
Open the first little door of my Advent calendar:
a darling hobby horse on wheels. Open
the window a crack: and quickly close it against
a knife-like draught. The day looks warmer than it is.
My other job is helping to curate art at Wilson Abbey/Everybody's Coffee--here is a glimpse at our current project #biggestadventcalendar
Come and See
Wilson Abbey Windows #biggestadventcalendar are back!
Located at 935 W. Wilson Avenue in Chicago, the three-story building will again
unveil each day of Advent a new window decorated with seasonal images.
Beginning December 1, celestial themes with a mix of magic
realism will occupy each window, culminating with the final center window
December 25. “This year there will be doves in outerspace,” says building
manager and co-founder of Everybody’s Coffee, Karl Sullivan. “For instance the
Tuskegee Airmen represent the Three Wisemen.” New this year will also be a
Winter Wonderland in the ground floor windows of Everybody’s Coffee.
According to Karl Sullivan: “Our objective is to show the
intensity and beauty of the Advent season.”
The windows will be composed of mixed media such as
sculpture, textiles, innovative lighting, as well as layered paintings.
Designers and artists are Karl Sullivan, Suzanne Stewart, Genesis Winter, and
Diane Borden.
Wilson Abbey and Everybody’s Coffee invite you to Come and
See. Follow them on Instagram and at Facebook=Wilson Abbey Windows and at
Twitter using the #biggestadventcalendar. Stop by every day for a new reveal.
As you drive by 935 W. Wilson Avenue be sure to look up!
Readers of this blog know that I’ve written about being a
poor writer. Jobs in the arts don’t exactly pay like jobs in finance. So many
of the journals I’ve appeared only offer publishing credit and not payment. I
walk a tightrope between wanting to see my work in print and insisting that I
am reimbursed for my effort. Anyway, suffice it to say when I drove down to
Kentucky for the Book Festival I wasn’t planning on staying at a hotel.
I’m a couchsurfing host in Chicago and went that route first—only
one person responded to my request, with the reply that they were busy that
weekend. Then I googled camping to find that RIGHT NEXT TO the Horsepark
All-Tech Arena was the Horsepark Campground. It seemed like a good idea until
the day I left Chicago—in the midst of flurries, with a week of BELOW average temperatures.
I had a few concerns, but took extra layers.
I’m a pro at camping, and have had experience sleeping
outside in cold. I just didn’t know if I wanted to do it the night before a
book show.
When I pulled into the campground, though I began to get
excited. They were ground zero for an outdoor light festival called Southern
Lights. Imagine synchronized lights, horses galloping, tin soldiers marching,
snowflakes softly falling. There were lights displaying the twin spires of
Churchhill Downs, jockeys leading horses, gingerbread houses, and horse
stables=all lit up for the season.
After setting up my small tent I walked the circuit and then
crawled inside my sleeping bag with the lights glowing around me. It was like falling
asleep in a Winter Wonderland.
I loved these pajamas! I wore them until the pants became
shorts. I kept the cap, for a favorite stuffed animal. This was the house on
Hackney Street in Kettering; I must be about 4, almost 5. Nancy is 6. The metal
kitchen set was a shared toy, though I might have appreciated it more.
Eventually it got moved to a backyard playhouse where it rusted and one day I
opened up the oven door to discover a nest of spiders. After that I never
touched the kitchen set.
2)
A rare instance of Nancy and I playing together—though to be
exact it might be more parallel play. Growing up we were nothing alike. Never
one to fall into gender prescribed roles, she was more a tomboy, at home on a
basketball court rather than in a kitchen. My sister was a mystery to me. I
think today she might be referred to as on the spectrum. Someone with sensory
issues. She could not abide clothes with tags on them; they had to be removed.
Clothes in general made her itch. She was picky about fabrics and textures.
Physical activity was her language. Nancy could occupy herself for hours
shooting hoops, whereas I would hole up reading a book. Years later she would
likely unwrap baggy shorts and jerseys and basketballs, while I’d cherish gifts
of books. One Christmas I read through my stack of books in one afternoon
before turning to a book given to my dad, The
Summer of ’42, where I came across the word fuck and a scene involving “rubbers.”
This definitely felt like a bridge too far.
3)
I remember this girl! Busy Janie wearing her Christmas Day
pajamas, with her skates strapped on, making something at her kitchen set. I’m
sure I’m trying to tell my older sister what to do. I could never keep my mouth
shut. I always had a bright idea. Going a hundred miles an hour, doing two
things at once, trying to be the boss. Driven to go further than anyone else.
–––No wonder most times Nancy
wanted nothing to do with me.
4)
Wrapping paper is tossed to the side. Grandpa bushed from an
early chaotic morning has fallen asleep on the couch. Days of anticipation have
now been realized. The momentous moment has passed, and Nancy and I are busily playing
with our new kitchen set. We were meant to “share” this gift, just as the older
boys, Steve and Tom, were given shared toys. Ones too expensive to be for just
one kid.
I might cook up a breakfast and then tackle the dishes in
the play sink. I loved to pretend. I could enter a Jane World to escape just as
Pop-pop did when snoozing.
It is a picture of American middle-class security, a time of
prosperity, as the “greatest generation” forged ahead.
–––Yet there is so much left
unsaid.
We are on the cusp of tumultuous years, the Vietnam War,
generational divisions, addiction, shame, mental illness.
Here is a contest you might want to consider sending flash
work inspired by the holidays.
Friday Flash Fiction is about to
launch this year's Christmas Competition – usual prize, $50 in the winner's
local currency. As ever it'll be sponsored by Comely Bank Publishing.
You'll be invited to take part
in two ways:
You'll be invited to submit one (or
more) stories to the competition; AND
You'll be invited to vote for
the story you think is best.
First of all we'll be inviting
anyone to write a flash fiction story of 100 words or fewer. The story has to
be in the English language but that's about the only limitation. This year is
theme-free – the door is wide open for you.
Every 100-word story posted in
from the 1st December until entries close on TUESDAY 18th December will be
eligible to win. Entry is COMPLETELY FREE.
In accordance with tradition,
last year's winner, Lyn Miller and I will select around half a dozen
contenders. Our choice will be purely subjective, but we hope you'll like the
ones we pick. We'll be looking for a combination of originality and plain good
writing.
Once we've chosen that short list,
we'll get back to you – probably just before Christmas – and what will happen
is that we'll invite each of you to vote for the winner from our short list.
We'll get back to you towards
the end of the month to remind you again. The competition is a public one, but
we hope lots of you will enter.
Friday Flash Fiction is a 100-word challenge site that
publishes selected work online every Friday. For more information go to http://www.fridayflashfiction.com/
The Yuletide season is a perfect time to write flash memoir.
1)We have no time to write a gajillion words, so keep it simple
and small, haiku Christmas! Remember Dicken’s A Christmas Carol was one of his shortest and MOST popular stories,
The best things come in small packages.
2)So MUCH material is generated by dysfunctional families,
Christmas feast disasters, Gift of the Magi moments. We all have memories
conjured by this festive/unfestive time of the year.
So I have some ideas I’ll share with you this week as we
head into Thanksgiving—which launches us into Black Friday and the Advent
Season.
My first tip is to come to a class I’ll be facilitating at
OCWW in Winnetka.
Jane Hertenstein - Holiday Flash
When
December 20, 2018
9:30 AM - 12:00 PM
Location
Winnetka Community House, 620 Lincoln Ave., Winnetka IL
Registration
Guest – $20.00
Member – $10.00
Non-Member – $20.00
Student – $10.00
Jane Hertenstein leads us in a special Flash Fiction and
Memoir workshop and contest. We'll get a flash course in writing flash, then
Jane will turn us loose to write 500 words or less, fiction or memoir, on
something related to holiday experiences. A week later, member participants are
invited to submit their final drafts to Jane, who will select up to three
entries to feature in the OCWW newsletter.
Even on the radio I could tell: She was a nice person.
I recently listened to the podcast This American Life where
they re-aired a piece originally from 2001—the theme was A Return to Childhood,
where Alex Blumberg went in search of his old babysitter, Susan Jordan, in “Ich...
Bin... Ein... Mophead.”
It was as much about how we remember and misremember than
about how Alex eventually tracked down Susan using a private investigator.
--That was 17 years ago. She must be about my age or a
little younger.
I could tell just by the sound of her voice that she was a
nice person. It wasn’t said but I could tell as much: Alex had been secretly in
love with his fearless babysitter. She was his champion. She would have beaten
up a motorcyclist to defend her young charge, whom she felt a bit sorry for.
Alex, she hesitated to mention, was a bit bookish and obsessed with stuff
beyond his years. She was compelled to “play” with Alex and his sister.
But Susan had her own story, as we learn. Because of family
dysfunction she’d moved out of her house or—and it was not clarified—her family
had left her. She was a freshman in college, trying to make it on her own on a
babysitter salary. The kids she watched came to be stand-ins for her younger
siblings whom she missed.
At the end of the call, at the end of the piece she finally
confessed. She was afraid Alex had called her because of something she’d done
or said. She remembered that time period as not one of her best. She was lost,
abandoned, struggling. She was afraid somehow she had messed him up.
1) How sweet and
2) How many times have I thought the same thing. –What a
horrible person I was (the unsaid thought is that I still am) The thoughtless, horrible things I’ve said to others,
That smug, self-righteous persona I give off=all this will come home to roost
someday.
The whole piece is immersed in humanity. In longing. Our
desires to change and go back, readjust the dial of memory. It was melancholy
and immutable. Frozen in time.
Susan of the 70s, a listening ear to young Alex, Susan of
the grocery store, a young newlywed, still the older woman to Alex, and then
years later, where the age gap makes them more or less peers—they still cannot
bridge the difference. His life went one way and hers another. We cannot plot
the course of our lives on a vertical and horizontal graph.
This was a magnificent piece of journalism reflecting
memories and our own perceptions of reality.
I can’t tell you how many times people have told me they
want to write. Great! The world needs your story.
Years later they are still talking about writing. You see,
it's easier said than done.
Every day we have to wake up and face hard tasks. Ones that
in our imagination seem easy, but once faced with them, we are overwhelmed. How
does one get started with a great idea?
I recall one such dilemma I encountered. When I was in high
school I wanted to start a club for kids in a housing project down the road.
These children didn’t have access to the swimming pool or after-school softball
or soccer teams where you have to pay for membership. They had very few
opportunities for fun and organized recreation. My idea was to present games,
crafts, treats, and mentoring.
This was before the Internet, before social media. How in
the world would I be able to get something like this going? It’s not like you
can just go into an open field on the property and gather up loose kids.
But that’s what I did. With a giant Earth ball.
I went to a place—maybe it was the YMCA—and told them my
idea. They rented me a big, big ball. I’m not sure how I got it in my VW “Bug”
and to the housing project. I wedged the ball out of my car and stood in the
open field. My heart beat hard in my chest. My head kept telling me if this isn’t
one of the most stupid things you’ve ever done, than I don’t know what. No one
is going to come. My mouth was dry—I couldn’t even whistle.
A little girl ran outside, curious about what I was doing. I
mean little. She was height challenged. So probably older than she looked. I
told her to go get her brothers and sisters. She ran away. Well that’s that, I
thought. After awhile (she had very short legs) she ran back with them. I told
them to go get their friends. A few minutes passed. Well, that was a mistake; I
should’ve just been happy with a few kids. But then, they ran back with a whole
bunch of kids.
Now what? I hadn’t thought about what we were going to do
with the Earth ball. So I made something up. We played tug-of-war, a kind of
fatalistic rugby where we pushed it back and forth trying to roll it over the
opposing side. I think we called it “Killer Ball.” Then we had Kool-Aid and I
handed out little slips of paper inviting them and their friends back next
week. Eventually I was able to use a community room at the housing project and
do indoor crafts when the weather turned.
How do you get started on a great idea—you just do it. You
step off into darkness, into the unknown . This isn’t quite like the Romanovs
walking into a windowless room, more like crossing a tall bridge where
there might be trolls—if they existed. How do you know?
Fear—we’re all afraid of something. None of us want to fail.
When I do my bike trips people are constantly saying: You’re
so brave. Not really. I’d wake up every day while on my trips wondering if I’d
make it to my destination. You see, I don’t always ride with maps. But, even
with maps, I often get lost.
This past summer I rode my bike by myself from Amsterdam to
Sandnes, Norway. I had to deal daily with different languages, currency, kilometers,
road closures, my smartphone dying. Yet always by the end of the day I got
somewhere. I’d put up my little tent, fire up my tin-can stove, and prepare a
bit of supper. Always there was a tomorrow where I would once again wake up and
question my abilities—and as usual ride closer to my destination.
In Norway on my last day, I made the decision to ride a
plateau rode that is known for its difficulty. I climbed and climbed up past
the tree line, up above alpine lakes—then when it came time to descend into the
fjord below there were 32 hairpin turns on a single one-lane road plus one dark
tunnel. I was scared.
But needs demanded I keep going. It was too late to change
my mind. I rode down, carefully. When done I celebrated with an ice cream. It
wasn’t easy, it wasn’t always pretty—yet I was so glad to have accomplished
what I’d set out to do.
“Failures, repeated failures, are finger posts on the road
to achievement. One fails forward toward success.”
The other day in the car I passed a shuttered piano store.
Like so many retail outlets, brick and mortar stores are closing up. Sears.
Treasure Island. My favorite tea shop. People order things on-line. The tea I
used to buy I have to order from Amazon. Virtually every place—in Chicago a
metro area of over 3 million people—doesn’t offer the brand I like.
But how do you order a piano. Drones can’t deliver it. Those
people on bikes can’t run it up the steps. My UPS guy already has a bad back.
Certain things can’t be plucked off the conveyor belt, packed, and shipped at
an Amazon warehouse.
Will pianos become extinct?
In a way they are already a rarity, and the people who play
them. And the neighborhood ladies who advertise lessons. All of this will
become a thing of the past. We’re too busy with our devices and pressing buy.
