Telling Tuesdays 01/17/12

Welcome to Telling Tuesday, a day reminiscent of those in school when I looked forward to seeing what everyone brought for show and tell. This weekly feature was inspired by an article on WriteToDone.com, called "How to Show (Not Tell): A Writing Lesson from John LeCarre."


It is one of the best articles I've seen on the rule all writers know--show, don't tell--because it doesn't just tell us how not to tell, it shows us some of LeCarre's very own examples.

" . . . descriptions can set the scene, convey the inexpressible, and turn the reader into a witness, instead of remaining a mere bystander." -- Mary Jaksch, author of the article

Each week, I'll give a "telling" prompt, and invite you to show us, to make us a witness, not a mere bystander.

THIS WEEK'S PROMPT:
We had a bit of a mishap at the bonfire on Saturday. One of the lanterns we released into the air caught a down draft and the lantern came crashing down into the grass. At first it looked like it would burn itself out, but then we could tell the grass caught fire. With the wind blowing, it wouldn't be long before the tiny fire got out of control. This gave me my prompt for the week:

Smoke got in her eyes.

     Only moments before, the group of friends had circled around a bonfire. Into the flames, they had each tossed notes jotted with things they wanted to be rid of in the New Year.
     Hers was fear.
     Now, they watched lanterns they had released into the air, filled with aspirations and blessings for the New Year. Up the bright red lanterns drifted. Up, up, up, carrying each into the Universe.
     But the wind whipped and blew one to the ground, bringing a chorus of "oh no" from the group.
     Whose lantern had crashed? She watched it begin to burn out, until another gust of wind blew.
     The embers turned the flames! The grass was ablaze!
     She ran. Ran hard, her mind filled with images of an out-of-control blaze. Breathless, she arrived at the circle of flames that danced like devils in the wind. She stomped the orange heat, but it continued to grow around her, so she stomped harder. Faster.
     Water. A shovel. She needed something. Anything. The flames spread. Smoke burned her eyes. Fire scorched her shoes.
     It was out of control.
     Then, someone came beside her and began slamming the ground with a coat. She stomped, the person next to her slammed. She didn't know, didn't care who it was. She was only glad not to be alone.
     "Don't worry, Jan," the person said, "I got your back."
     Ruth!
     "Oh, please, God," Ruth whispered. "Please help us put out this fire."
     Slowly, slowly, the flames died. Jan kept stomping. Ruth kept slamming. Until at last, every ember had burned out.
     Relieved, they hugged each other, each reliving the experience through breathless phrases.
     "Can't believe . . ."
     "Brave . . ."
     "Got your back . . ."
     "Thank God . . ."
     As they walked away from the blackened circle in the grass, Jan smiled, remembering that piece of paper she'd tossed into the bonfire.
     Fear.
     And the blessing she had released into the Universe.
     Friendship.


Okay. That was my slightly creative non-fiction of an actual event. Show me yours!


As always, feel free to offer critique (ie, was it suspenseful? Did you "feel" it? How can it be improved?) And I always invite you to include a link to your blog in your comments.

A Creative Non-Fiction Murder Mystery

What is a creative non-fiction murder mystery, you ask? It's a true story with pieces of (very) stretched truth. And that's exactly what I'd call "Murder on Starr Mountain" --stretched truth.

I wrote the story after hearing Stephen talk about a murder that occurred on our property, around the time he purchased it, approximately three decades ago. That's the truth part. The stretched truth (that's the creative part) starts when we flash forward about twenty-five years. That's when Stephen's German shepherd, Duke, always barked at this one particular tree. We never could figure out what he was barking at. Of course, as a writer, I asked myself why, then wrote a story.

Duke's Memorial, at the tree where he used to bark.

Here's an excerpt:

I was just passing by the shack of old Billy Starr – homesteader they named the mountain after – when something moving in the rearview mirror caught my eye. It was Billy, hobbling after me, waving me down.

Sitting next to me, Duke panted.

“Hold on, boy.” I pulled over and rolled down the window.

“Howdy,” Billy said, wiping dust from his eyes with his hanky.

“Howdy, Billy. Everything okay?”

The scent of a hard day’s work drifted into my truck on a hot breeze. When he spoke, the cigarette smell on his breath blasted in, too. “Yeah, everything’s okay. Right now, anyhows. So, how do you like that place you bought up there?”

“Just fine, for all the time I get to spend there. Seems like I’m on the road more than I’m home. Folks aren’t too interested in buying encyclopedias no more.” I shifted in my seat, not sure what hurt more, my butt or my back. All I knew was I wanted to get home and get out of that truck. Yep. It was time to end the small talk. “You take care, now. Good seeing you.”

Old Billy grabbed my arm with tanned, leathery hands. “Wait a minute!”

His grip startled me. “What is it? Something wrong?”

“Well, it’s just that there’s a secret’s been weighing on my mind. Big secret. Figured it was time to let you in on it.”

All I wanted was to feel a hot shower running down my aching back and an ice cold beer cooling my parched throat. I wasn’t in the mood to sit and banter with Old Billy. But the obligation to be neighborly — and a slight curiosity about the big secret — kept my foot on the brake pedal a while longer. “What secret, Billy?”

“Anyone ever tell you about what happened on your property before you moved there?”

 “No, what?” All kinds of images filled my head. Fire? Poachers?

“Well, you see . . .” He blew his nose, then wiped the back of his neck. “There was a murder up there.”

If you'd like to know more about that murder, and just what it was that kept Duke barking up that tree, you can purchase Mysteries of the Ozarks, Volume IV (High Hill Press, 10/11) one of three ways:

Contact me: jymorrill(at)gmail.com --use @ for "at"-- to purchase an autographed copy for $15.00 (Plus shipping)

Click here to purchase for $15.00 from Ozark Writers, Inc.

Click here to purchase from Amazon for $16.95

This anthology is full of dozens of mysteries set in the Ozarks, written by award-winning authors. It's perfect reading for sitting in front of a warm fire on a cold, wintry day.

ALSO!!

Contact me at jymorrill(at)gmail.com--use @ for "at"-- to purchase an autographed copy Echoes of the Ozarks, Volume VII (High Hill Press, 11/11) for $15.00, plus shipping.

My story, "Crossing Crystal Bridges" is about one wife's attempt to "sophisticate" her husband by introducing him to the finer side of life at the opening of the Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art in Bentonville, Arkansas. Was she successful?

Here's an excerpt:

“Fred, get off that tractor and come inside this minute. You promised you’d take me to Bentonville for the Crystal Bridges opening this afternoon.”

He rolled his eyes and pretended not to hear his wife over the rumble of Old Bessie’s engine.

Winnie ran toward him, waving a fresh-pressed shirt. “Did you hear me? You need to come in and shower. We’re supposed to pick up Henry and Ella Sue in an hour.”

He shifted into neutral and, feeling a panic attack coming on, took a deep breath of brisk air. “Oh, for god sakes, Winnie May Caldwell.” He always called her that when he got excited—kind of like counting to ten. Huffing, he continued. “I got to get this field tilled before the first frost.”

Creative Non-fiction and the Paprika Incident

Wikipedia defines creative non-fiction as a genre of writing that uses literary styles and techniques to create factually accurate narratives. Creative nonfiction contrasts with other nonfiction, such as technical writing or journalism, which is also rooted in accurate fact, but is not primarily written in service to its craft. As a genre, creative nonfiction is still relatively young, and is only beginning to be scrutinized with the same critical analysis given to fiction and poetry.

In this blog post, I will attempt to show the difference between "technical writing" and creative non-fiction. First, the technical writing of an incident that happened yesterday:

STEPHEN: What are you doing?
JAN: Making egg salad.
STEPHEN: Why don't you make deviled eggs?
JAN: Egg salad is easier and it tastes almost the same. It just doesn't have paprka.
STEPHEN: I love deviled eggs.
JAN: (Laughing) I remember an argument that Mary and I had once about whether paprika had any flavor or not.
STEPHEN: Yeah? What was the argument about?
JAN: Mary thought paprika did have a flavor, and I said it was only for decorative purposes.
STEPHEN: How old were you?
JAN: Probably about fourteen.
STEPHEN: I can't believe you can remember that far back.
JAN: Of course I can remember. I remember both times in my life I was wrong.

Jan and Mary almost 40 years after the "Paprika Incident."

Now, here's the creative non-fiction version:

     One spring morning, Jan decided she was in the mood for an egg salad sandwich for breakfast. Her mouth watered in anticipation as she peeled each egg.
     Her husband, Stephen, watched from the kitchen table. "What are you doing?" he asked, then took another sip of coffee.
     "Making egg salad," she said, tossing the last peeled egg into a bowl.
     "Why don't you make deviled eggs?"
     Jan mashed the white orbs with a fork and scooped a dollop of mayonnaise into the bowl. "Egg salad is easier and it tastes almost the same. It just doesn't have paprika."
     "I love deviled eggs," Stephen said, turning a page of his newspaper.
     Recalling a conversation from high school, Jan laughed. "I remember an argument that Mary and I had once about whether paprika had any flavor or not."
     "Yeah? What was the argument about?"
     "Mary thought paprika did have a flavor, and I said it was only for decorative purposes."
      "How old were you?"
     She stopped mixing and thought about the day she and Mary sat in the cafeteria at school, talking about paprika when other girls their age were talking about boys. "Probably about fourteen."
     The newspaper rustled as Stephen folded it. "I can't believe you can remember that far back."
     Jan tasted the egg salad, deciding it needed a little more salt. "Of course I can remember. I remember both times in my life I was wrong."
     Stephen rolled his eyes.