Daily Archive

Last night I went to the 2^nd meeting of a Writer’s Workshop I had learned of at the local library. At the first meeting, three weeks ago, I was the only participant. I was assured by the leader of the Workshop that at least a “couple more” people were coming to the 2^nd one, and when I arrived at the library, I met the two new “writers”. One was a college student, a young Asian woman probably in her early 20’s. The other was an older woman, overweight and with the bearing and stance of a no-nonsense, do-it-herself farm woman. We introduced ourselves and the leader, a mid-30’s woman with a Master’s in English, told the newcomers how we had worked the last meeting. Each had brought samples of their work with copies for all, and each was to read a portion of what they’d brought. Then the rest of us would critique, make suggestions, and so forth. The college girl had brought a journal entry about a bike ride she took in Wyoming, the leader had brought a fairy tale she’d been working on, and the country woman had brought a short story about a hunting dog.

I had brought my recently written review of the first part of Marcel Proust’s In Search of Lost Time, and I was the last to read. After finishing my reading, there was total silence. And then more silence. And still more silence. And then finally- silence. At this point the door to the room we were in chose to close itself, slowly and also silently, and we all stared until the door was completely closed. I said, “I’m sorry, Marcel, I’m doing the best I can”. Everyone laughed, and joked about poltergeists, and then the college girl said she couldn’t really say anything about my writing, because it was “…like, a critique, right?” and she couldn’t understand it. Our leader made some helpful suggestions and asked me questions about why I’d written some things as I did, such as Proust’s use of a Magic Lantern Projector as a metaphor and as way to introduce the themes of the novel. After I finished, the farm woman finally rared back in her chair, crossed her meaty arms over her chest, put one ankle up over one thigh, and said, “Have you ever noticed how when you have a group of people in a room, there’s one who doesn’t say much and just listens as the others talk about what a book really means and what the author really meant and their opinions on it all. I’m a listener, and I just sit here thinking what a load of hogwash! What clap-trap! Why can’t you just read a story and enjoy it? All that stuff you’re saying means nothing! It’s all hogwash! It’s all clap-trap!”

Thank God Marcel had already left the room.

Here’s the link to what I wrote: http://marimann.wordpress.com

I once read a book about children’s rhymes in which a study was described in which a totally new skipping verse was found to have travelled from Britain throughout the English Empire of the day in less than 80 days–and that, I might add well before the internet. Fran

Growing up, we were not encouraged to dream, neither day- nor night. Night dreaming might be mentioned if it was scary or taught a lesson. Anything else–the mysterious, flying, living a wonderful life–was dismissed as a waste of time. And day-dreaming was no better. You could have been learning, cleaning, studying, or making yourself a better person.

As the only American-born member of my family, this did not seem strange. My parents had not ony gone through the hard-time 1930s, but they went through World War II in one of the countries that lost.

To read the rest, as well as see a link on how to daydream, visit my art studio. There’s chai on the table.