Author: Constance

Reading, an Opinionated Overview

Posted on by Constance

I remember the first book I took out from the not picture books side of the library. Not the title, but the fact it was a real book with more words than pictures. It was about a dog. When I held it in my hand, I was awed at the idea that whole different worlds were now available to me. I just had to pick them out. For an introverted child, that was heaven.

I think I read every book in the children’s section by a certain young age, and with the blessings of the children’s librarian, moved downstairs to the young adult and adult books. It helped that I went to the library with my mother every Friday afternoon after I got home from school and took out 10 books, the library limit. Afterwards, we would go out to dinner at some cheap diner and talk, while in the back of my mind I would savor the idea of all those new adventures waiting.

Savoring is what reading is all about to me. Eyeball the cover, crack open the book, read the title page and its reverse (because I’m weird that way), ponder the dedications. Who were all these people? Writers had help? A deep breath before the rollercoaster-like plunge into the story. Once in a while I was fooled by a prologue. I didn’t develop an overwhelming hatred of them, more a resignation and impatience. I wanted the main story, and I wanted it right now! Good thing I’m not a mystery reader, right? Although I’ve come to respect prologues as a way to sink gently into the story and build anticipation.

It wasn’t until high school that I learned the joys of non-fiction. Histories, biographies, how things work books. Books about other countries. It all fascinated me even as I worked my way through the fiction on World War II, dipping into histories as seemed appropriate. Then on to the Vietnam War. I grew out of war stories into philosophy. My favorite art teacher, knowing my rabid reading habits, gave me a worn copy of Jean Paul Sartre’s Being and Nothingness. He said, “We’ll discuss it when you finish”. Talk about being thrown into the deep end. Then came another philosophy book. And another. Lots of discussion. Thanks to him, I dual majored in philosophy and art in college. The places reading takes you shouldn’t be underestimated.

I still have diverse interests and read voraciously. There is so much I want to know. I’m grateful for my e-reader. Yes, it’s nice to have a real book to hold, and I like my non-fiction to be a physical book, but as many novels as I go through in a month, my house would be an episode of Hoarders with books. I’ve also noticed as I’ve grown older, I’ve come to a realization. I don’t have to finish a book. I can close it and walk away. Or throw it at the wall and not read another word. I couldn’t do that as a child. I felt obligated to read every word of the book until the end. Even if I hated it.

As my eyesight gets worse, I like e-readers more. I’m learning to tolerate audiobooks. I use them to drive the long distances across Wyoming, but I notice I tend to grab books I’ve already read to listen to. Kind of like a reread, a comfort? Audiobooks don’t distract me from driving, as they do for some people. I remember getting to my destination one time and sitting in the car for another thirty minutes just to hear the end of the book. Isn’t that what it’s all about? The magic, the need to hear the end, but not wanting the book to end? The same with a series. I’m down to the last two books in an author’s series right now, and I’ve put off reading them. I don’t want my trip into her world to end. Eventually, I’ll dive in and read them. Then start looking for another series to turn my obsession on.

I want adventure, I want knowledge, and I want a peek into someone else’s life. I want to experience the pleasures without the physical pain. I want to sink into a book like it’s a bathtub full of exotic water, slip down to my nose, and luxuriate. I want to transform, transcend, traverse. I want to pick up my first chapter book and start reading all over again.

Where does reading take you?

Curb Your Short Story

Posted on by Constance

No, I’m not talking about taking the story over to the curb to do its business, although that might not be a bad idea. I was thinking of a curb bit on a horse, a bit more severe than a run-of-the-mill snaffle bit; it basically operates on the principle of leverage. It can apply pressure on the bars, tongue, and/or roof of the mouth of an unruly horse and let him know his antics are not acceptable. Used properly, the bit raises the horse’s head and neck and makes him tuck his nose. In the wrong hands, the bit can be painful; it can cause the horse to throw his head up high and stretch out his nose in an effort to relieve the pressure. The gentle pull you give on a snaffle bit can cause agony with a poorly fitted snaffle bit.

When I first moved West, I had a hard time dealing with ‘peanut roller’ horses. Those that carried their heads so low they seemed to be dragging them on the ground. All my English-style training taught me to have the horse on the bit, head up and waiting for my signals. Instant response, instant gratification. Until I rode Western, I didn’t know there was any other way.

I had the same problem with short stories. They have their own rules and regulations. I did what I was supposed to, and read the guidelines, then read collections of short stories in an effort to distill the formula. Many abortive attempts later, I discovered what other people were quicker to figure out. There is no formula. Many of the examples of good short stories broke all the ‘rules’ set out by the leading magazines and college professors.

I should have known. I’m not big on the rules part of anything; why did I think following the rules regarding short story writing would help? Like anything, it’s good to know the basics before you set out to tinker with the system. I wrote several by-the-book short stories. They were mechanically sound, but bored the hell out of me. I suffered from the Begin At The Beginning syndrome. Now that I’m a wild west rule breaker, I know enough to start there, but edit later and pare the story to the basics. Tell the tale until it’s done, then go back in with a curb bit and make that story spin on its haunches if need be. Make it arch its neck and tuck its nose. Too heavy a hand and the poor story is tossing its head in agitation. Don’t make it behave, and you end up with an incomprehensible mess on your hands.

Used properly, the curb bit of rules can guide your short story to the finish line. Short stories are the dressage of the writing world. “Look what I can do”, they say as they perform their gymnastics. Of course, I must confess I was never that good at dressage. I liked show jumping with its all-or-nothing aspect. One fault and you’re through. Maybe that’s my fear with short stories, since it’s harder to hide mistakes. Will it measure up? All I can do is put it through its paces and send it out into the world, head held high. Then I can retreat back to my peanut-rolling novel, with its inoffensive snaffle-bit outlook. But come to think of it, maybe my novel would benefit from a few weeks with a curb bit. It’s been feisty of late, changing direction and demanding larger story arcs. How else can I show it who’s boss?

Never Drop A Parasaurolophus On Its Head

Posted on by Constance

This Essay brought to you by Creative Procrastination Techniques and the letter “W”.

I’ve been writing, honestly, new poems and half a short story, in addition to editing, editing, editing —novel and poems and getting ready for another chapbook. I also need to do a postcard for the Baren Chinese New Year Card Exchange. Researching my animal took a while, but I managed to sketch out an idea I liked, dropped it into Photoshop to play with colors, then printed out a template.

The bad news was that since I’d cleaned (well, some) my office, rearranged, and shoved things into plastic tubs, I couldn’t find my wood blocks to carve the animal. I did come across a block of plasticine left from my sculptural days, conveniently sitting alongside a wire frame and baseboard. The wire framework looked suspiciously like . . . a dinosaur. A hydrosaur. Last time I remember being really interested in hydrosaurs was when my eldest was five and could recite every name and type of dinosaur with ease. I finally remembered, the wire skeleton was one of his favorites, a parasaurolophus. Digging deeper in the tub, I found all kinds of reference materials.

You know what happened next.

Before I realized it, I had a fledgling parasaurolophus taking shape on the armature. The next thing I knew, it was hours later, and dogs were making those “Good doG, woman, aren’t you EVER going to feed us, we’re starving here” noises. I stuck the armature and fleshed out the dino on the corner of my drafting table, noticed a block of shina plywood hiding on the bookshelf next to it, reached over… and knocked Mr. Duckbill off the table right onto his fancy head crest. His cranium took a beating, as did the tail. I’ll be spending my next round of sculpture straightening the fancy head dodad so it doesn’t resemble a limp noodle, rebuilding the tail so it doesn’t look like a cat took a bite off the end, and yes, picking copious amounts of dog hair out of the plasticine.

I set the parasaurolophus in a safe place on a shelf (away from my elbows), got out my woodblock carving tools and bench hook, transferred the animal to the wood block, and did some preliminary carving. Somehow, going from smooth blocks of oily clay to splintery wood and sharp, pointy cutting tools doesn’t seem like the smartest plan, given my klutziness, but hey, at least I won’t feel guilty if the wood block ends up on the floor. As it was, I had to turn the parasaurolophus around, so I wouldn’t have to look at hisbedraggled crest and mildly accusatory expression, as if I had deliberately set out to give brain damage to such a stellar member of the Cretaceous dinosaurs.

Yes, it’s been a long winter. Why do you ask?