Fact and Fiction

My parents in awe of their new son.

Many thanks to the publishers of Wordrunner for including two of my poems in their new echapbook, Upheavals, which you can read here.

One of the pieces is about a pregnant woman leaving her husband. Pure fiction. I call the woman "my grandmother" in this poem, but my grandmother never stormed out of the house flapping a dish towel. Or at least not that I know of.

The second poem is simply a list of details my mom has told me about my birth, including the popcorn she ate the evening before and my inability to breathe in the first moments after I was born. This is a factual piece, and yet I've added some details of my own. I don't know, for instance, what my dad was wearing that night, but I call it a "cranberry" cardigan because he always told me how over the moon he was to have a daughter as well as two sons, and I associate cranberries with celebrations - a family gathered around a table. Were my brothers really cold when they stood outside and waved to our mother, who was standing in a window? Who knows, but that image felt right to me.

As for the grandmother poem, my real grandmother was a tough, spirited lady, so maybe there's a hint of truth in this piece after all: An example of fact and fiction playing hide and seek between lines.

Stories, Poems & Prosecco

A few of my favorite writers.

My adult students recently gathered for a party.

What were we celebrating? The fact that each of them had written a story or poem or memoir in their own voice...and that they were willing to share it with us.

Each piece welcomed us into another world. A world where a woman wears red boots while pretending to dance with Robert Redford. Where another woman meets Elie Wiesel in a refugee camp. Where a Ukrainian man is on a plane full of Crimean Tatars returning home after being expelled by Stalin more than four decades before.

When I was a kid I felt special because I was a writer. I loved sitting cross-legged on my bed and pouring out ideas onto paper, then shaping them into a form that made me happy. I also loved the way my English teachers beamed approval at me.

Our party on March 16 was a celebration of both things - the private joy of expressing ourselves and the public pleasure of appreciation and applause. Writing is an act of power that can grow tenfold and more when we're heard by others. Truly a cause for celebration!

Lyric Fiction by Mona Stewart-Gettmann

"Snow White" has always been a rich story, thick with beauty and dread. In her new tale about the huntsman who was sent to murder Snow White, Mona Stewart-Gettmann creates a chilling and moving portrait of this unnamed character.

About the artist/author:  Mona Stewart-Gettmann cannot remember NOT drawing. She took art classes in college, and then writing came later. From reading lots of children's picture books, she's seen first-hand which ones children like.

A New Editing Class!

I'm excited to offer a new class for women this spring.

Here are the details:

Creative  * Editing * for Women

Explore ways of shaping your creative work into polished pieces through craft talks and honest, supportive feedback.

4 Tuesdays – April 9 & 23, May 14 & 28

10 a.m. – noon

All experience levels & genres welcome

Meets at Taborspace – 5541 SE Belmont

Over the course of 4 meetings, each participant will have the chance to

~ share at least 2 separate pieces with the group

    up to 5 pages of prose (double-spaced) or poetry (single-spaced)

~ receive written instructor feedback on one piece (up to 5 pages)

$80 for 4 meetings

Limit 8 participants

Preregistration required

Creative Memoir by Jan Rhinehart

'L'Aurore' walking through the peach roses in Square Georges Cain, Paris                               

Enough of winter! In this exquisite, sensitive piece, Jan Rhinehart brings us a whiff of spring.

Rose
by Jan Rhinehart

Somedays I reach out to embrace the day just to be pricked by a thorn. The prick is firm enough to cause bleeding, more internal than external. The external can easily be taken care of:

wash

dry

bandaid.

The internal continues to drip until enthusiasm for the day has been lost. Depression creeps in.

Can I afford to give up a day to doldrums? Can I risk sitting and doing nothing?

I take a deep breath, step out on my patio, tidy a few things, deadhead some plants and then my eyes focus on the rose bush.

There a most beautiful blossom, faint in scent but lovely in form. A smile crosses my face. Calmness surrounds me. Appreciating at that moment, that the day that started as a thorn will end as a blossom--a rose.

About the author: Twenty-five years ago Jan Rinehart was accepted to participate in the Oregon Writing Project. She carried those skills to her classroom and taught beginning writing skills to many elementary students. Since then she has 'flirted' with personal writing but is now ready to 'commit' to daily writing. She has endless praise for the Women's Writing Group for the success she is feeling with writing today.

Paper Heart

I've always loved Valentine's Day.

When I was in first grade, I loved singing "Mail Myself to You" in music class. I loved making a mailbox out of a shoebox. I loved coming home with a list of my classmate's names and cutting out a red paper heart for everyone.

Everyone.

A paper heart for my best friend with whom I chewed gum in bed.

For the girl who wore the cool go-go boots I so longed to wear.

For the girl who lived in a fancy house with stairs.

For the boy I chased in circles around the playground. I'm not sure what I would have done with him if I'd caught him, but it felt so good to run in my white blouse and navy blue skirt, my knee socks and my tennis shoes.

I made valentines for all of the kids in the class. For Mike and Michelle and Ashley. For Chris and Connie. All of them.

Now here's one for you.

A New/Old Poem

I wrote this poem almost twenty years ago, but it still feels true today. My heartfelt thanks to the editors of Sum Literary Journal for publishing "Song for a Young Daughter" in their "Dyad" issue.