A Hundred Words

images-2I’m sad to say it, it being my business and all, but there are just too many out there. Words, that is.  As an essayist, I’m biased toward less is more, but I’m also a consumer of words, too and the truth is that I get so much more from what I’m reading  – I remember it – when the right words carry the load.

Consider the text message. See if you get a profile of who the texter is here:

I don’t need you to get me.

Can we go bathing suit shopping?

Please call me.

Be out in front in 10.

Can you please drive me to work today?

Awesome I meet you outside.

Can we make dinner tonight? Caesar salad, chicken shnitzel and potatoes? I’ll help.

In study hall.

Can you pick me up?

Bought planner $5.

I’m at Marina’s.

There are less than 100 words above, but I think the reader gets that the texter is young (awesome) – probably high school age (study hall) –  probably female (bathing suit shopping), active (pick me up; take me to work), social (I’m at Marina’s) and clearly a lover of chicken schnitzel. We also get that she is in fairly regular contact with the receiver, who is likely to be her mother (all those rides!)

These are the actual text messages sent to me by my eldest daughter when she was a sophomore in high school (when I did indeed feel like most of what I was going was picking her up and dropping her off!)

We don’t need gestures or words that tell us her tone. We just can hear her speak. The rhythm and word choices do that as do the topics.

Experiment with writing spare. When you focus on the nouns and the verbs, you get to the core of the character. Get that onto the page and after you have a sense of what’s there, you can bring in the poetic language.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Family Secrets

ScanI never set out to write about my family. If anything, I ran and embraced the other direction when I chose the field of journalism. Reporting trained me to talk to all sides, focus on facts and keep my dang opinions out of it.

In an interesting twist, it was a j-school colleague with whom I worked at a publishing company after graduate school (and would become a dear friend ) who assigned me my first personal essay. At the time, she was the editor of women’s health publication for a Chicago-area medical system. The “Hers” column in the New York Times was popular then. I had just given birth to my first daughter and she asked me to write a short personal reflection about motherhood. The piece was titled “A New Vision of Motherhood” and I wrote about what had changed since becoming a mother for me, and also, in how I saw my mother. It was the first time I ever wrote about my family for a public audience. You can read it here: A New Vision of Motherhood.

There’s so much more to say about what happened next, but what I remember most about writing that essay was how amazing it felt to turn my skills as a researcher and writer of others’ lives to my own. It was potent. And complicated. But I was drawn – and hooked – on the form. I went on to write a monthly column about my family and ultimately a collection of sixty of those were edited into short essays that ended up in my book.

So I was delighted when, last year, StoryStudio Chicago asked me to teach a one-night workshop on writing family secrets. I have a few things to say about the subject. And some great essay snippets to talk about. The workshop is being reprised on Monday, March 18 at 6:30 pm. You can find out more about this one night workshop (and registration info) here.

 

 

Lesson from the Stairs

IMG_3187I snapped this photograph last December when I was in Southern California. The colors swept me up; such a contrast from the gray Chicago I had left behind.

But when I uploaded it into my photo files, I saw something else in these colored ceramic tile stairs: Vertical/horizontal. Pattern/solid. Movement (the step) and stillness (the landing.) I saw structure; the suggestion of structure for a piece of writing. For an essay that begins on the ground, then  steps up to a bold pop of pattern, then moves into solidity, then into a new and different pattern and repeats.

The stairs made me think of Bernard Cooper’s perfection of a short, structured essay in seven paragraphs, “The Fine Art of Sighing.” You can read it here.  Graf by graf, step by step, it moves us from present (the solid) to memory (pattern) to imagination (new pattern) to history (another pattern) and finally, back again to the present (the landing). At the top landing, we stand differently than we stood on the ground because we’ve been given a richly textured, guided tour of the stairs.

Photo by Ellen Blum Barish 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Beauty in Wondering

 

Allen Ginsberg wrote, “Catch yourself thinking.”

Though it’s likely he was referring to poetry, these words get to the heart of the essay.

Writing the essay is seeing the beauty in the wondering and, of course, making the effort to capture it like when snap a photo in a moving car on a winding Colorado road.

Like in this essay by John Jeremiah Sullivan. On the surface it’s about a trip he took to Disney World with his wife, daughter and another family. But what we also get a trip into his thoughts.

You can read his essay “You Blow My Mind. Hey Mickey! here.

 

 

A Rock to the Head

IMG_0639Photo by Ellen Blum Barish

“I became a writer when I was hit on the head with a rock,” writes Karen Bender in “The Accidental Writer,” an essay in today’s New York Times Book Review. “There was blood everywhere,” she writes. “They actually had to move the birthday cake so it wouldn’t get bloody. That was one of the first lines I remember, that perception, and I remember saying it later with a mixture of wonder and pride.” She needed that observation – that first sentence – to give her a way to spin it. “..to make the sloppiness of the experience somehow my own.”

I love the idea of a rock to the head as writing prompt. A rock is a wonderful metaphor: sculpt one or put several together and you can make art.

What got you writing way back when? When did you stop and linger over just the right words?

You can read Bender’s essay here.