Tag Archives: fiction

Jonathan Livingston Seagull and Me

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I became enamored with the book, Jonathan Livingston Seagull, by Richard Bach sometime in 1971. I was a young suburban mother of three living in Bellevue, Washington. In the book was wisdom about living your best life that inspired me. A couple of years later my friend Karla told me she read in the newspaper that Richard Bach was going to barnstorm in Issaquah later that week at the small skyport there. We decided to take our kids to see him. Karla’s son was three and so was mine, my two daughters were five and six. We went to a big open field with one runway and a barn to watch Richard Bach guide his biplane to a landing and get out to greet people. There were about twenty or so people there. He looked very spiffy in his jeans, white turtleneck shirt, white scarf, and leather jacket with windblown wavey hair and a mustache.

I wanted an autograph in the worst way but in my excitement, I forgot to bring the book with me. Richard offered to give short rides in his biplane for five dollars. Karla and I looked at each other and exclaimed “Let’s do it!” There were two or three people who flew before us, so we watched as he piloted his plane through various maneuvers. I kept an eye on her son while she took a ride, and she watched my three kiddos while I went up.

When it was my turn Richard asked if I had ever been in a biplane before. “No,” was my answer. “Have you ever been seasick or airsick?” Again “No”. Would you be afraid to be upside down?” My excitement climbed. “No”. “Ok then, we’ll have fun,” he said.

The ride was short and exhilarating. We did loop de loops, barrel rolls, and zig zags. I think my entire flight lasted fifteen minutes and my heart soared. When we were back on the ground, he hopped out of the plane and helped me down. He shook my hand, and I thanked him, utterly starstruck. Then I told him I read his book but forgot to bring it for an autograph. He reached into an inside pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out a piece of blue paper. He tore it in half, took out a pen, drew a picture, and signed his name. “Here,” he said. “Paste this inside the cover of your book.”

I have read and reread most of his books. I think Illusions is my favorite although when I read another it becomes my favorite. These are a few of his quotes I love best.

“When you have come to the edge of all the light you have
And step into the darkness of the unknown
Believe that one of the two will happen to you
Either you’ll find something solid to stand on
Or you’ll be taught how to fly!” ― Richard Bach

“No matter how qualified or deserving we are, we will never reach a better life until we can imagine it for ourselves and allow ourselves to have it.” ― Richard Bach

“Remember where you came from, where you’re going, and why you created this mess you got yourself into in the first place.” ― Richard Bach, Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah

“You’re never given a dream without also being given the power to make it true.” ― Richard Bach, Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah

“There is no such thing as a problem without a gift for you in its hands. You seek problems because you need their gifts.” ― Richard Bach, Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah

“You don’t love hatred and evil, of course. You have to practice and see the real gull, the good in every one of them, and to help them see it in themselves. That’s what I mean by love. It’s fun, when you get the knack of it.” ― Richard Bach, Jonathan Livingston Seagull

The Great Boston Tea Party as witnessed by a tea drinker (flash fiction*)

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The date, December 16th. The dawn of a very cold day in Boston. A light snow had fallen during the night leaving the ground covered in a thin layer, and clouds of smoke spewed from chimneys adding more gray to the skies.

I’m out of tea for breakfast. I just want one lousy cup of tea and the tea box is empty. I cannot believe I didn’t get a tin the last time I was at the merchant.   I’ll go next door to Martha Mason. She always has an abundance of everything. She could be called a hoarder but I’d never say it to her face because she often has just what I need, like tea, and she is always willing to share. A beneficent hoarder.

I pull my woolen great coat on over my shabby linen dress and stuff two corn husks in the bottom of my shoes to keep out the wet.  I step outside my door. I’m grabbed from behind, suddenly engulfed in a mass of humans. No, they’re not human, they are Mohawk Indians. I’m bumped and shoved into the midst of their surging bodies. Indians! With tomahawks and painted faces. What are they doing in town? They are sweeping me along with them. Oh my god, I’ll be killed. Bitter panic rises from my stomach to my throat. I try to cry out, terror overwhelming my desire for tea. I can’t even scream.  I’m trying to stay upright amid the surging horde. I don’t want to be trampled. I almost lose my footing, but I’m bolstered by the crush of savages around me. I can smell the sweat of their leather-clad torsos. There must be over a hundred of them.  They are stealthy and silent except for their heavy breathing. As the tide of heaving bodies forces me along, I look into the face of the Indian to my right. Wait, that’s no Indian, it’s Mister Borwin, the tea merchant. 

“What are you doing?” my voice in shrill cry.

“Shhhh, quiet missy,” he says, “We’re almost there”. 

We traveled the eight blocks toward the harbor. I can see ships swaying at anchor. Suddenly whoops and yells erupt from the mob and they pick up speed as they dash aboard the ships. I’m pushed aside and land abruptly on my rump in a pile of snow. The “Indians” begin picking up one great crate after another, throwing them overboard into the harbor. I realize the crates they are throwing are full of tea. Tea! I raise myself up and jostle my way aboard the closest ship. As a crate is raised it breaks open. I grab two tins of tea and rush home for my breakfast cuppa.

*Flash fiction is a short short story with plot, action and characters, no more than a page in length.

Truth and Facts

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Originally posted on A Way with Words blog

Today I read a moving blog post about a friendship. The author wrote about her friend with the truth of memory, not necessarily the facts.  Raising the Dead ‹ BREVITY’s Nonfiction Blog ‹ Reader — WordPress.com.  I read another insightful blog post about current political turmoil in France. Out My Window ‹ Reader — WordPress.com. Somehow those two posts melded, although completely different in intent, and made me think about my reality and my memories.

To me facts are incontrovertible, they may be proven false later, but they are the concrete reality that can be proven at this point in time. Facts are objective, the absolute of what we know now through all our senses. Truth is subjective. It is the reality of facts filtered through our experience. We are all human and, as humans, subject to our own prejudices and emotional knowledge. Truth is facts of the heart, our day-to-day understanding of what is going on around us. As memoir writers it is important, on your journey to the truth, not to let facts be stumbling stones. While facts may be important they are not the sum total of the experience or the lessons you learn along the way.

I have a friend, a brilliant sculptor, who exhibits regularly at art shows around the country. I’ve watched her, in an hour or two, turn big lumps of clay into miniature animals – wolves, horses – so realistic that you expect them to move toward you at any moment. A magical experience. Many years ago, I traveled with her to an art exhibition in Montana that included her work. During our time there meeting artists and enjoying the art world, we had an on-and-off weeklong discussion on religion. What is the soul, what is spirit, can God be proven, etc? The discussion continued as we packed up and left Great Falls. I was driving her van. Somewhere along the highway, we passed a gas station where a large dog was sitting close to the edge of the road. We are both dog lovers.

I interrupted our discussion with “What kind of dog was that?” as we zoomed by.

“Dog?” she replied, “What dog?”

“The one we just passed,” I answered.

“We didn’t pass a dog, we just went by a Circle K,” she said.

“Ah, you didn’t see the dog, but it was there.”

“You’re making it up to change the subject.”

At the next turnable place, I maneuvered the van across lanes of the lightly traveled highway in a most illegal U-turn and headed to the gas station possibly five miles back, hoping the dog hadn’t been run over or run away. Sure enough, the dog was still sitting by the road.

“There,” says I, “that dog.”

“Oh, I guess I didn’t see it. It looks like a shepherd mix to me.”

“And that was my point,” I said returning to our discussion about belief. “Your reality is that the dog didn’t exist because you didn’t experience it.  Your truth is different from my truth. My truth could be based on an illusion or on my five senses, but it is my truth. It is what I know to be true and the same goes for you. Had I not turned the van around, we would have totally different memories of the same experience.”

What would my essay be today if the dog left, disappearing around the side of the building or into its owner’s car? It would be of a dog I swear I saw but then disappeared and her story would be of a crazy friend who made a U-turn in the middle of a highway to show her a phantom dog. Both would be true.

I write fiction primarily. Fiction contains elements of a writer’s truth. To my many memoir writing friends I want to say, write YOUR truth. There are no video or audio recordings of your day-to-day activities or relationships and the memories they engender. Your memory IS the recording and it IS filtered through your experience. Write what is in your heart because that is the truth and that is more important and much more interesting than all the facts listed in order as years evolve. Don’t let the fears of others block your truth. They cannot convey your story and should not arbitrate it. They are bit players, you are the star. What you learned is of value to those who are not able to express their story in words. Your truth may inspire or may help someone, even in your family, understand their world better. Write your story as it is for you. Don’t wait to let someone else tell it because it will then only be your story filtered through their experience, their story of you. Be Brave.

Our book Telling Tales and Sharing Secrets includes essays from each author’s truth as well as fiction short stories and poetry.

Whose Ring Is It?

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Originally posted on A Way with Words blog

Prompts: Whether you write fiction, non-fiction, or memoir, story is the important element.  Conveying facts through story is the best way to engage your readers. Feeding facts one after another will put a reader to sleep quicker than snow melts at the equator. Creating a story within the boundaries of a prompt (facts) trains your brain to be creative (narrative). This is an example of a quick write making a one-page story from a given set of “facts”.

Jackie’s Prompt: Write one or two pages and include words: pliable, awkward, distance, imagine, sensible. Start the story with: “I picked it up to have a better look and …”

These were the things that first came to my mind.

… I discovered it was alive

…it bit me

….it appeared to be a diamond ring

          I picked it up to have a better look and I probably would not have noticed it except for a brief parting of clouds, a peek-a-boo moment of sun.  The day was covered in a thick gray blanket to keep out all but the faintest daylight at three o’clock. In that moment there was a brilliant flash in the pile of yesterday’s leaves. Is it real? Of course not was the answer that came instantly to mind. How would a diamond ring be in my backyard buried in a pile of leaves that we raked yesterday? I shoved it into my pocket, vowing to check with my housemate. I knew for sure it could not belong to Collin, but it might have belonged to Ellen, his sister. She has a collection of jewelry to rival Musk’s collection of Tweets. Possibly it fell from his pocket as we did yard work. Why would he have it?  Yesterday had been so much fun. We laughed and plunged into piles of leaves like little children as we cleaned up the last of fall’s debris beneath the oak, maple, and sycamore trees that bordered our property. My job today was to bag up all the piles while Collin was gone. The trashman comes tomorrow.

          When I finished pushing leaves into twenty-four black garbage bags I went into the house for a cup of tea. The warmth of the kitchen melted icy fingers that had clamped onto my neck and shoulders in the late afternoon chill. I wrapped my hands around the hot cup letting the steam drift up into my face. I sat at the kitchen counter and pulled the ring from my pocket, a simple wide white gold band with an emerald cut diamond of several carats. It was striking.  Could it be real?

          I reached for my cell phone. Collin left early this morning for a business trip to Hopewell, a distance of about two hundred miles, so I didn’t expect him to be home tonight. I wanted to let him know I’d found the ring in case he was worried. I could not imagine why he’d have it, but I knew he’d be concerned if he discovered it missing.  He answered on the second ring.

          “Busy?” I asked

          “No, the meetings are over and I’m on my way to a hotel. It seemed more sensible to stay over than trying to get home tonight.”

          “Yeah, I figured that. Guess what? I found the ring.”

          “What ring?” He sounded hesitant.

          “Did you lose a ring in the backyard yesterday while we were raking?”

          “I didn’t have a ring.” His voice was gruff, his answer felt abrupt.

          “That’s strange. How would a ring get into our leaf pile?”  There was an awkward pause.

          “What kind of ring?” he asked.

          “It looks like a diamond.”

          “Do you think it’s real?”

          “Don’t know, I’m not an expert. It’s pretty and I’d say if it is real, it’s impressive.  I’ll put it in my jewelry box and you can check it out when you get home. We’ll figure it out. Seems strange though to have a ring randomly show up in the backyard.”

          “Don’t tell anybody about it. Okay?”

          I am usually very pliable when it comes to Collin’s requests. We’ve been best friends for more than a decade and suffered through each other’s ups and downs; his boyfriends, my boyfriends, his business ventures, my writing. Something in his voice sent an alert. My skin prickled.

          “What’s up, Collin?”

          “What’d you mean?”

          “Is it or is it not your ring?”

          “No, I told you. But just don’t make a big deal of it. We’ll talk when I get home. I’m leaving now. See you in about four hours.” He hung up the phone.

What do you know differently from the story’s beginning to the end? This is an example of turning facts into narrative.

Why I Write

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First posted on A Way with Words December 5, 2022

It’s about Power.

As a writer of fiction, I can create a city, a village, a country, a world. I can fill it with characters that I love or love to hate. I can imbue them with a certain amount of free will and, if I don’t like how they use it, I have the power of the eraser or delete key. The characters I create may be human or they may be animals, even mechanical beings, or a combination of these.  I can ride down a country road feeling the fluid strength of the steed beneath me, enjoying the bucolic scene of field and meadow, knowing that around the next bend there is a plot twist that will change my story, transform the world. I can change the weather from stormy to sunny and back again. In short, I am god.  I can wander through forests of words and chop down the one I want to take to a sentence I’m constructing. I can plunge into oceans of emotions to catch the one that will give my character motivation to propel the story forward.

Similarly, when I write memoir or creative non-fiction, I take an event from the headlines or from memory and, while sticking to the reality of it, invent or reimagine dialogue I did not hear or do not remember. I give the incident a spin to emphasize the part I think is important or transformative. It is my story told my way. This kind of writing does require research to authenticate it. I enjoy research because it opens the discovery of things I did not know and enriches knowledge that I then mine for other stories.  I prefer fiction and poetry because I am not bounded by facts, annoying facts that constrict my imagination.

Writing is an inexpensive form of entertainment and also therapy. The cost of a pencil and paper can set me up for hours and hours of diversion. I disappear into a world I create. Sometimes it is hard for me to resurface, to attend to my daily tasks and the real-life characters, human and animal, who live with me. I am glassy-eyed and slightly incoherent for a time when I leave my writing desk depending on how long I have been immersed in writing. My dear husband can attest to the state of suspended animation that surrounds me. I gave up the idea of writing the great American novel by the time I was thirty. I write for myself because I love to play god.