First Paragraphs: The Paper Palace, Miranada Cowley Heller
Written By: Jessica Morrell
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Sep•
24•24
Things come from nowhere. The mind is empty, and then, inside a frame, a pear. Perfect, green, the stem atilt, a single leaf. It sits in a white ironstone bowl, nestled among the limes, in the center of a weathered picnic table, on an old screen porch, at the edge of a pond, deep in the woods, beside a sea. Next to the bowl is a brass candlestick covered in drips of cold wax and the ingrained dust of a long winter left on an open shelf. Half-eaten plates of pasta, an unfolded linen napkin, dregs of claret in a wine bottle, a breadboard, homemade, rough-hewn, the bread torn not sliced. A mildewed book of poetry lies open on the table. “To a Skylark,”soaring in the blue–painful, thrilling–replays in my mind as I stare at the still life of last night’s dinner. “The world should listen as I am listening now.” He read it so beautifully. “For Anna.” And we all sat there, spellbound, remembering her. I could look at him and nothing else for an eternity and be happy. I could listen to him, my eyes closed, feel his breath and his words wash over me time and time and time again. It is all I want.
Beyond the edge of the table, the light dims as it passes through the screens before brightening over the dappling trees, the pure blue of the pond, the deep-black shadows of the tupelos at the water’s edge where the reach of the sun falters this early in the day. I ponder a quarter-inch of thick, stale espresso in a dirty cup and consider drinking it. The air is raw. I shiver under the faded lavender bathrobe–my mother’s–that I put on every summer when we return to camp. It smells of her, of dormancy tinged with mouse droppings. This is my favorite hour in the Back Woods. Early morning on the pond before everyone else is awake. The sunlight clear, flinty, the water bracing, the whipperwills finally silent.
This opening makes me feel as if I was waking up along with the character. The details pulling me in. The morning-after sense of things. The odd, but true-to-life details of a bathrobe that smells of dormancy tinged with mouse droppings. The mildewed book, the air raw, the water flinty. There’s a strong sense of place near water, isn’t there? A place that is closed up during winter.
As is the writer’s deliberate telescoping viewpoint–starting with a pear then moving outward. In a few paragraphs she’ll take us into a momentous interaction from the previous night. The story then slips into backstory that happens when the narrator is a baby and a doctor works to save her life. “You were always a happy baby,” my father says. “Afterward,” my mother says, “you never stopped screaming.”
And that, my friends, is a hook.
Keep writing, keep dreaming, have heart
So when people say poetry is a luxury…
Written By: Jessica Morrell
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Sep•
21•24
So when people say poetry is a luxury, or an option, or for the educated middle classes, or that it shouldn’t be read at school because it is irrelevant, or any of the strange and stupid things that are said about poetry and its place in our lives, I suspect that people doing the saying have had things pretty easy. A tough life needs a tough language–and that is what poetry is. That is what literature offers–a language powerful enough to say how it is. It isn’t a hiding place. It is a finding place. ~ Jeanette Winterson, from Why Be Happy When You Can Be Normal?
Inspired Openings
Written By: Jessica Morrell
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Sep•
15•24
The day is starting under a smudged sky and I’m happy to report rain arrived last week–a lovely relief in our baked, thirsty part of the world. And autumn is in full swing–halleluja. Yesterday I walked along leaf-strewn paths on a small nearby mountain and while it’s covered mostly in Douglas fir trees, the big leaf maples were changing to pumpkin colors and leaves are strewn on the paths. So much change in the air.
I’ve taught at a lot of writing conferences so I’m not certain which east coast city I was in when I met
Donald Newlove. He wrote two beautiful books that meant a lot to me when I first encountered them; Painted Paragraphs: Inspired Description for Writers and Readers and First Paragraphs: Inspired Openings for Writers and Readers. I haven’t read his Invented Voices: Inspired Dialogue for Writers and Readers, but I just ordered a copy.
Most writing conferences include book signings and it was during such an event when I met Newlove. I recall gushing over Painted Paragraphs and First Paragraphs, my joy and appreciation at meeting a fellow word lover, and we later sat together at dinner. These days that would be called fangirl behavior. No matter. I learned more about him and we talked about the power of voice in writing. We agreed that voice in a story should be as identifable and distinctive as hearing a voice on the phone, even if many of us text more than phone these days. His The New York Times obituary summarizes his long life, and I wish I could beam his love for writers, language, and stories through the ethers to you.
Over the years I’ve posted some of my favorite story openings here and plan to return to this practice. And I’ll discuss what opening paragraphs need to accomplish and why. One possibility for pulling in readers is to introduce an irrisistable character. Here’s the beginning of “Pharmacy”, a short story from
Elizabeth Strout’s Olive Kitteridge, one of my favorite books of all times:
For many years Henry Kitteridge was a pharmacist in the next town over, driving every morning on snowy roads, or rainy roads, or summertime roads, when the wild raspberries shot their new growth in brambles along the last section of town before he turned off to where the wider road led to the pharmacy. Retired now, he still wakes early and remembers how mornings used to be his favorite, as though the world were his secret, tires rumbling softly beneath him and the light emerging through the early fog, the brief sight of the bay off to his right, then the pines, tall and slender, and almost always he rode with the window partly open because he loved the smell of the pines and the heavy salt air, and in the winter he loved the smell of the cold.
The pharmacy was a small two-story building attached to another building that housed separately a hardware store and a small grocery. Each morning Henry parked in the back by the large metal bins, and then entered the pharmacy’s back door, and went about switching on the lights, turning up the thermostat, or, if it was summer, getting the fans going. He would open the safe, put money in the register, unlock the front door, wash his hands, put on his white lab coat. The ritual was pleasing, as though the old store — with its shelves of toothpaste, vitamins, cosmetics, hair adornments, even sewing needles and greeting cards, as well as red rubber hot water bottles, enema pumps — was a person altogether steady and steadfast. And any unpleasantness that may have occurred back in his home, any uneasiness at the way his wife often left their bed to wander through their home in the night’s dark hours — all this receded like a shoreline as he walked through the safety of his pharmacy. Standing in the back, with the drawers and rows of pills, Henry was cheerful when the phone began to ring, cheerful when Mrs. Merriman came for her blood pressure medicine, or old Cliff Mott arrived for his digitalis, cheerful when he prepared the Valium for Rachel Jones, whose husband ran off the night their baby was born. It was Henry’s nature to listen, and many times during the week he would say, “Gosh, I’m awful sorry to hear that,” or “Say, isn’t that something?”
In her first two paragraphs, Strout’s description of Henry establishes his decency, steadfastness, vulnerable but appealing insecurity, yearning, loss, loneliness, and grief that weaves through not only “Pharmacy” but every one of the book’s subsequent linked stories. These paragraphs describe so many ways I love Henry. I too, love the smell of the cold. Notice how we’re grounded in the story with Henry’s morning routine of opening the pharmacy to red rubber hot water bottles and his white lab coat. And if you haven’t seen the brilliant adaptaion of Olive Kitteridge with in the title role, I cannot recommend it enough.
Keep writing, keep dreaming, have heart
Marie Kroyer: an artist’s tale
Written By: Jessica Morrell
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Sep•
12•24
In case you needed some quiet beauty today, this painting is called The Orange Glass Jug and Green Cutting. It was painted in 1894 by Marie Kroyer
Let me pass along some information about Kroyer. I’ve been learning about the Skagen Painters lately and am fascinated by this flourishing artist colony who were part of the ‘Golden Age’ in Denmark. It was a time a number of artist colonies were established in Europe, with artists leaving behind city life. During her lifetime Marie was best-known as the wife of Peder Severin Kroyer and often served as his muse. There are worlds, complications, and sorrows contained in that sentence. The artist colony not only gathered in a remote fishing village in the northern part of Jutland, some members lived there. Part of the draw was the exquisite light.
Her husband was the most famous and successful artist and leader of the group. It is claimed she was considered the most beautiful woman in Denmark. She dreamed of being an artist since she was a girl–I’m guessing some writers might relate to this. And, she studied her future husband’s paintings. He was 16 years older than her.
Unusual for the mores of her time, she pursued her dreams, including attending a private school since women weren’t allowed to attend the more prominent art academies and helping other women artists get access to schooling. At 21 she went to Paris and studied in various studios and met and began a lifelong frienship with Ann Ancher who was another Skagen Painter. Which is where she again encountered Kroyer–they’d met previously in Copenhagen and married six months later after a ‘whirlwind’ romance. They moved to Skagen and her friends feared this would be ‘artistic suicide.’ Only 20 of her works are still in existence, and like Vincent Van Gogh, her talents weren’t recognized during her lifetime.
After moving to Skagen {they spent summers there} and the birth of her first child she switched to architectural and interior designs, including furniture, fabrics, pillows, and wooden art panels. Over time her husband’s mental health deteriorated, his eyesight began failing, and he was repeatedly institutionalized. While vacationing in Sicily she met a Swedish composer and violinist Hugo Valven, and began a scandalous affair. Her husband only granted her a divorce when she became pregnant with their daughter Margita.
But that marriage also ended in divorce after many courtroom dramas over her husband’s philandering. She died in 1940 still haunted by her unfulfilled artistic dreams. The death of her daughter Vibeke in 1986 brought her remaining paintings into the light and many were acquired by the Skagens Museum. There’s so much between the lines in Kroyer’s story–postpartum depression after the birth of her first daughter, the humilating, flagrant affairs of her second husband, her comparing herself to her first husband’s artistic prowess. And hints that he might have discouraged her from painting.
And one more thing that has me musing–Kroyer’s admirable body of work contains so many portraits
and inclusions of his wife in landscapes. But this meant she also spent a lot of her time–besides tending to her daughter and managing a household–posing for her husband. And I wonder about her output before her difficult marriage since she was able to pursue art then.
It’s been noted that Peder’s mental illness and manic episodes, as depicted in a film by Billie August, included violence. {I’m planning to watch it soon.} It’s seem likely that PTSD played a role in her life, doesn’t it? I’m especially curious about the research behind the film, but she did write that her many household obligations were a barrier to her ambitions.
And so was comparing herself to an older, more experienced artist–her first husband. Something I’ve heard many writers do. Naturally we can admire or want to emulate other writers, but comparisons can sometimes be detrimental. Espeically when those writers are more established.
Keep writing, keep dreaming, believe in yourself
Make Your Character Out of Sync and Uncomfortable
Written By: Jessica Morrell
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Sep•
11•24
From Disney Pixar Toy Story
Tension must be intricately laid throughout a story, not just appearing in moments of distress or while a character strives for a goal. A great trick for inducing a constant underlying tension is to portray your protagonist as uneasy, uncomfortable, or at odds in each scene. She can be hot, cold, bored, nervous, lonely, hungry, tired, aching, or craving a drink or smoke. The point is, she is rarely at ease, rarely happy, and rarely comfortable.
As a writer, you’re constantly looking for opportunities to make your character feel out of sync with her surroundings. You send a rookie cop to a grisly crime scene. You force an introvert to attend a party. Because you’re striving to use tension as an underlying factor in every scene, rarely feature your character alone in a scene. The reason is simple: A character alone can be static. If you’re tempted to create these protagonist-alone scenes, it’s helpful to imagine your character on a stage alone and immobile. Sit in the audience and observe her, and ask yourself what you can add to make the scene sizzle with tension.
If you’re forced to create scenes where a character is alone, find ways to introduce tension. Perhaps while alone the protagonist recalls a painful memory, and thus the scene segues into a flashback. Or, she could be deliberating over difficult choices or thinking back to the previous events in the story. In a transitional scene where the character is driving or walking to the next locale, she can be dreading what is about to happen, fighting traffic or a downpour, or in some way interacting with the environment.~ from Between the Lines: master the subtle elements of fiction writing
It’s a Calling, Margaret Atwood
Written By: Jessica Morrell
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Sep•
08•24
It’s not a profession, this track you’re on. It’s a vocation – a calling. There’s no pension plan, there are no guarantees, and there’s no magic potion. What you’ve chosen to do is brave and risky, but it’s also necessary – increasingly necessary as we move into a future for which no one, right now, has a convincing blueprint. You’ll be taking the ancient, ancient human language and its songs and stories that have been passed down to you changing as you they go; and through inspiration and hard work that will in turn be moulded by their time, as everything we’ve done is and has been; and then you’ll pass these forms on in your turn, if we’re lucky. If we are all very lucky.
~ Margaret Atwood, speech to the Whiting Foundation
Stories are Like Life Rafts
Written By: Jessica Morrell
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Sep•
05•24
Autumn is whispering to me. It reached 92 today and 100 is forecast for tomorrow, but regardless of the coming temperatures, the seasonal change is beginning around here with burnished colors. Last week I camped–in a tent–and woke early with the temperature a brisk 46 degrees. Unfortunately, campfires aren’t allowed now in Oregon parks because of the risk of wildfires. The woods near the Clackamas River smelled of the coming season, musty and earthy. The night sky impossibly dark, the quiet deep.
Yesterday I listened to Maura Conlon’s new podcast, Orginal Belonging. Specifically I listened to Episode 4, Primal Belongings and I simply
need to recommend it to writers and creatives everywhere. Conlon is the author of the marvelous memoir, FBI Girl, How I Learned to Crack My Father’s Code…With Love about growing up in a family where her father was an FBI agent. It’s also been turned into a screenplay. She’s fascinated with the primal nature of our creativity and holds a doctorate in Depth Psychology. In this six-part series she poses the question: What made you come alive in your first 14 years that reveals the essence of who you are?
The episode begins with the whistle of a tea kettle–a sound I hear every morning. Conlon imgines it’s a sound her grandmother heard in County Clare, Ireland more than a century ago. She explains that she’s passionate about the primal nature of our creativity which allows us to connect with ourselves and the sacred web of life.
The episode then launches into an origin story, tracing her creativity when she’s 14 or 15 and discovers sewing as a creative outlet and early feminine sovereignty. But first she tracks when she got her period, the awkwardness of her changing body, and an uncomfortable conversation and show-and-tell with her mother. I was brought back to my own memories of being 13 and my own encounter with my mother into this passage into womanhood.
Conlon is urging listeners to search out their early life-defining experiences which offer timeless inspiration, resilience, and a through-thread for their lives. A key to their truest potential. She said, “We’re born to be creative. We’re born to play. We’re hardwired.”
I was called to this particular episode when I learned author Kristin Kaye was going to be her guest. Kristin is a former student and client and a magical being. I can still remember when I first met her in a workshop group I was leading. Maybe you’ve met women who have that goddess quality and mystique including a rare wisdom and depth. I’ve never forgotten her–or her profound connection to trees.
Kaye was first introduced as an author, meditation teacher, founder of Story Alchemy an online writing lab, conduit. She’s a ghostwriter and
author of Iron Maidens: The Most Awesome Female Muscle in the World and a novel, the award-winning Tree Dreams.
It was delightful to hear her voice as she traced her childhood memories from her suburban wanderings near a small creek to a family cabin amid wooded landscapes. Recollections of a step-grandfather who wrote poetry on birch bark and left the poems for her grandmother. Kaye always had an active imagination, including completing her Saturday cleaning chores against background music which turned into a natural inclination to perform and love of theater.
As for Tree Dreams, it’s a coming-of-age story with a 17-year-old protagonist torn between two realities–with old growth trees at its center. While researching her novel, Kaye took part in a ‘tree sit’ in a giant redwood tree for four days with the help of Earth First members, the environmental activist organization. They were tree sitting to save a grove of ancient redwoods. She describes how she climbed 100 feet up a rope–no easy feat– especially since she was encouraged not to touch the tree as she hoisted her body upward. She went on to describe the small platform she occuped along with supplies and a kind of dream catcher–a net between two branches (10 stories up or more). She slept in this net as the tree swayed and waved and felt the constant motion of the tree and world. Needless to say it was life-changing.
The sounds of the forest permeate the episode as it concludes and I want to quote Kristin: Stories are like life rafts. They sustain us, allow us to hope and remember inspiration. And sharing them, sharing stories, sharing poems, sharing visions, sharing experiences, we’re giving each other gifts in ways that we don’t fully understand.
Keep writing, keep dreaming, have heart
