The Seasoned Pen

FRIDAY

Lee, a long-haired, leather-faced, 60-something man who runs mailroom services for the company I work for, held the postcard he wanted to show me pinched between his index finger and thumb. Admittedly, at first, I was unimpressed, but that changed when the details of the card came in to focus and Lee let me borrow it for the weekend. Some information gathering was in order.

The post card had a vintage quality to it. On its face was a black ink illustration of the Statue of Liberty; on the back, there were two postmarks: one reflecting someone had sent it from Chapman, Ohio on September 19, 1907, and the other showing someone had received it later the same day 3.6 miles away in Jackson, Ohio.

The words “Statue of Liberty, New York” appeared printed underneath the image for obvious reasons. It was the next line that really caught my eye:  “1914 Illustrated Post Card Co., N.Y.”

Hmmm. That was peculiar. How could someone mail a post card 7 years before it was printed?

• The postcard was addressed to Miss Lena Davis, Jackson, Ohio.
• There was neither a street address, nor a clear sign of who sent it.
• A green stamp affixed to the top right corner said “Postage One Cent.”

While these details were at once interesting and odd, they were only mildly intriguing compared to the handwritten message penciled on the front of the card, half of which was in a numerical code.

MONDAY

I returned the Lena Davis postcard to Lee the following Monday and watched as he fingered and waived the delicate note around absentmindedly. Now that I had done some fact-finding, it was difficult to suppress the urge to plead with him to be careful. From my new found perspective, one fingerprint in the bottom margin of the card was enough. Time had turned it a faint, yet visible light brown, but there was no telling how old the fingerprint was or who left the genetic bread crumb. Maybe the mailman; maybe Lena; or, maybe one of hundreds of people who had handled the card over the years.

Lee’s eyes grew wide as I extended a tri-fold document containing the results of my Lena Davis research to him.

“I found her,” I said.

“You what?”

“I found her.”

THE EVOLUTION OF THE POSTCARD

According to Todd Ellison, Certified Archivist for Fort Lewis College’s Center of Southwestern Studies in Durango, Colorado, the world’s first picture postcards date from the 1860s to the mid-1870s, and most of the earliest American picture postcards extant today are those that were sold at the World Columbian Exposition in Chicago, Illinois, starting on May 1, 1893. These were illustrations on government-printed postal cards and on privately printed souvenir cards.

Private Mailing Cards (1898 – 1901): An Act of U.S. Congress on May 19, 1898 granted private printers permission to print and sell cards that bore the inscription “Private Mailing Card.”  Today these cards are referred to as “PMCs”.  The required postage was a 1-cent adhesive stamp.  At this time, a dozen or more American printers began to take postcards seriously.  Still, no message was permitted on the address side.  The term “Post Card” was not widely used until the early 1900s (it was later contracted to “postcard” as a word-counting cost-saving measure).

Undivided Back (1901 – 1907): New U.S. postal regulations on December 24, 1901 stipulated that the words “Post Card” should be printed at the top of the address side of privately printed cards.  Government-issued cards were to be designated as “Postal Cards”.  Writing was still not permitted on the address side.  In this era, private citizens took black and white photographs and have them printed on paper with post card backs. Often the sender would write across the picture.

Divided Back (1907 – 1914) – the Golden Age of Postcards: In 1907, Congress allowed the back to be divided so that the sender could write a message on the left side of the back and the address to which the postcard was to be sent on the right side. Many millions of cards were published in this era — it was the golden age of postcards.

White Border (1915 – 1930): Most United States postcards were printed during this period.  To save ink, publishers left a clear border around the view, thus these postcards are referred to as “White Border” cards.  The relatively high cost of labor, along with inexperience and changes in public taste, resulted in the production of poor quality cards during this period.  Furthermore, strong competition in a narrowing market caused many publishers to go out of business.

Linen (1930 – 1945): New printing processes allowed printing on postcards with a high rag content that caused a linen-like finish.  These cheap cards allowed the use of gaudy dyes for coloring.  Many important events and scenes in history are documented only by these cards.

Chrome (1939 – Present):  These cards look like a color photograph. Three-dimensional postcards also appeared in this era.  By 1960s, the standard size of cards had grown to 4 x 6 inches. To distinguish a printed postcard from a real photo postcard, examine it under a magnifying glass and you will see the dot pattern characteristic of printed cards.

Real Photo Postcards (1900 – Present): These cards are real, black and white photos. They may or may not have a white border, or a divided back, or other features of postcards, depending on the paper the photographer used.  The easiest way to distinguish a real photo postcard is to look at it under a magnifying glass; it will show smooth transitions from one tone to another. On the back, the publisher put the photo process in the stamp box: Kodak, AZO, EKC, KRUXO, VELOX

EVERY POSTCARD TELLS A STORY

Postcards are a boon for writers looking for story ideas. Auctions, eBay, and estate sales almost always have these cards available for purchase.  Most of the time you’ll find hundreds in antique stores tucked away in a random shoe box or turn-of-the-century dresser drawer, tossed together in a hectic conglomeration of timelessness and disregard.

These memorabilia capture important moments in history and provide us with a snapshot of places that have disappeared or transformed, and people who had visibility to an era much different from our own. These places and people slip in to the past, forgotten, until someone discovers that the expression on a stranger’s face or the tilt and intent of their writing inexplicably “speaks” to them and is worth saving.

Antique and vintage postcard pricing runs the gamut. The most expensive post card ever sold ($45,370.70) is believed to be the world’s oldest card, sent by writer Theodore Hook to no one other than himself in 1840.

Lee’s Lena Davis postcard was one of a larger collection he purchased at a flea market in Colorado Springs, Colorado. The seller was tired of lugging them around and let the entire lot go for $2.00. Many of the cards were quite old.

The message penciled around the Davis postcard flows softly and appears to have been written by a female’s hand (an assumption that would have to be confirmed by a handwriting expert). Also, as previously mentioned, the flip side of the postcard only includes Miss Lena Davis’ name, city and state. Apparently, a street address was unnecessary in 1907; the postal service knew where to find you.

Did Miss Davis receive the postcard? If she did, was she able to decipher its message? Can you?

It reads:

I lost the 19-9-24-20-25 but have got the 6-9-6-20-25

____________

You said you 12-9-11-5-4 me but I 12-15-22-5 you

____________

I am writing these at home but will send them from 3-8-1-16-13-1-14

O.

5-8

____________

My mind races with possibilities…

Who sent the postcard to Miss Davis and what did s/he wish to conceal with numbers? One way to tackle this question is to look at the time period.

1907 marked the beginning of the Progressive Era. It was a time characterized by widespread social activism and social reform across the United States (think women’s suffrage movement, industrialism, urbanization, and political corruption). Theodore Roosevelt was President and immigration was at an all-time high. In fact, the busiest day was April 14, 1907 when over 1.1 million immigrants entered the United States through—guess where?  Ellis Island, New York.

So, who was Lena Davis? Sadly, she’s been dead for decades, but how old was she in September 1907 when she received the postcard? Was she a child? A young woman? An elderly spinster or wife? Given this postcard’s message, both parties were old enough to read and write and had likely agreed to the coding method in advance.

But this is hardly enough information to solve the underlying mystery. We need to crack the code!

Here’s a hint: None of the numbers go higher than 26.

If you have it figured out now, congratulations! But we have more investigating to do.

When I cracked the code, I wanted to believe it was a love note – the scandalous kind. Perhaps it was written fueled by the hope of a desperate love-smitten young man; or, maybe it was an exchange between two young women who had, during the escalation of the women’s suffrage movement, found a kindred spirit in each other that was better kept a secret. Alternatively, was the code a game between two friends? What does the cryptic reference to “sixty” and “fifty” mean? Does 5-8 represent the initials of the sender, E.H., or something else?

USING CENSUS DATA TO SOLVE MYSTERIES & ADD DETAIL TO STORIES

Luckily, the postcard to Lena Davis provides many clues that may help us answer these questions. Here’s another puzzle piece for you: the 1910 United States Census.

The 1910 Census is the closest Census to the date on Lena Davis’ postcard (1907).  A simple search of the Census data using Lena’s first and last name, along with her city and state in 1907, clears one thing up for us: Lena Davis was born in 1897, and that means she was 10-years old when she received the postcard.

Think of it. Imagine a 10-year-old elementary school child writing or receiving a postcard today that someone else discovers 111 years from now. Let me get my calculator… that’s 2130 folks. Will today’s postcards be discoverable in 2130 or will humans have moved to Mars by then?

Can you figure out who sent the card based on this new clue? Could it be Lena’s mother? A favorite aunt? An elementary school sweetheart vacationing in New York with his or her parents? There’s some sleuthing involved to understand the sender’s identity, but later Census and cemetery records might hold the key.

Then again, if you’re a storyteller, maybe the mystery is better left alone, so that Miss Davis and the mysterious E.H. can be anyone you want them to be.

Written by: Stacie S. Gonzalez

Cool, You’re Home

(1)

The door to the kitchen off the garage is locked. The man assumed that it would be unlocked, because it usually is, and that a turn of the handle, a slight body press, and one shove is all that would be required to make the final transition from his shitty job to what’s more important. The man’s hands are full. He carries a brief case, a phone, a quarter-full traveler’s mug of cold coffee, and a small bag of last-minute groceries. When he turns-presses-shoves, the door greets him with a resistant ‘thud’. For a fleeting moment, an overwhelming sense of last-straw disappointment shoots from his brain to his chest to his gut and out through his limbs. Of course. His breath is trapped in his shoulders, and so it does not occur to him to put all the things down and use the key on top of the refrigerator. Instead he knocks on the door with his head, and thinks about what would happen if he spilled the cold coffee.

The man can hear the boy whistling to himself as he passes through the dining room and in to the kitchen. There is a simple click and the house opens up to the man, the father. The boy is standing in the doorway smiling like nothing’s wrong and ‘Cool, you’re home.’

The brief case and the small bag of last-minute groceries hit the floor with a ‘thump’, the phone slaps against the countertop, and the traveler’s mug of cold coffee clinks into the messy kitchen sink. The father’s tired hands are relieved. Before turning to greet the boy, the father pulls his wallet from his pocket and accidentally drops it on the floor. He takes his time picking it up. He squats to the floor and while he’s down there he closes his eyes and savors the few seconds he has found to collect himself.

When the father decides he has what he needs, he stands up. He then turns to the boy and sees the 10-hours that have passed since he left the house that morning: four meetings, a doctor appointment, a missed lunch hour, a nasty email from the ex, a presentation to his department, a tussle with an angry motorist, and a trip to the grocery store. The boy looks at his father and he sees the last 10-hours, too: a new song, an invitation to Homecoming, a B+ on a social studies exam, a track try-out, and a fox sighting on the way home from school.

The boy and his father have changed today. The change is microscopic, but nevertheless there has been a change.

The boy watches his father reach for the kitchen cabinet’s little round bronze knob, and then the glass, and then the wine bottle. He sees the red liquid glug, glug, glug, glug into the glass, almost but not quite to the top. The father leans against the counter and asks the boy if he had a good day. The boy talks of trying out for track and an Algebra test tomorrow that hopefully won’t be too hard. The father summons an exhausted smile and turns his attention to the little plastic bag of food he bought on the way home from work: a frozen bowl of pesto pasta, a box of taquitos, a large plastic container of guacamole because his boy loves guacamole, and a carton of milk, which he knows, because the doctors have told him so, is good for the boy’s body.

The boy misses his father and wishes he was home from work. The father microwaves the pasta and the taquitos, arranges them on a plate for the boy, and carries them to the dining room table. He pours the boy a tall glass of milk and is again soothed by the glug, glug of the red liquid he pours for himself. The man thinks about how nice it is to sit down and eat dinner with the boy tonight. He looks at the boy, and the breath trapped in his shoulders slowly begins to find its way out. How could he forget? He asks the boy if he had a good day.

(2)

Six o’clock on the money. The man guides the brown and yellow, four-door Country Squire station wagon in to the driveway. As he does this, he thinks about what he heard on the radio on the way home from work. That Nixon sure is a piece of work. Sometimes the man feels like the country is going down the tubes. He pulls out the ignition key and takes his foot off the brake. Through the window of the car, he can see in to the window of the home: the boy is moving around in the living room, and the television is turned to the evening news; he knows this because he can also see Walter Cronkite talking to his wife as she looks on with interest. The man smiles to himself and the vinyl seat beneath him squeaks when he turns and reaches for his briefcase and lunch box in the backseat.

He is happy to be home. He has been looking forward to the dinner he and his wife prepared the night before. That was really the way to go; teamwork, baby. Maybe it was her job, but he enjoyed prepping the vegetables and piling them up and over the top of the thick, juicy roast. Now she could watch Cronkite and he could walk into a home filled with the aroma of a ready-to-eat meal. Crockpot meals were the best.

The door to the house off the driveway is unlocked. The boy meets his father at the door and holds it open for him. Of course. The father inhales deeply as he walks in to the house and the rich smell of pot roast, carrots, onions, and potatoes swirls around him. The boy is standing in the doorway smiling like nothing’s wrong and ‘Cool, you’re home.’ The father sits his things down on the floor next to the coat closet and gives the boy a hug.

The father watches as the boy turns away and whistles to himself as he passes through the living room, and between his mother and Cronkite. The boy bounds up the stairs to his room, happy. The father pulls his wallet from his pocket and sets it, and his keys, on the foyer table where he’ll see them in the morning. He takes his time doing this; he wants a moment to close his eyes and savor the smells and sounds of being home.

The man approaches his wife, kisses her ‘hello’, and suggests she stay put with Cronkite; he will put dinner on the table tonight.

The boy returns to the kitchen and his father. The father turns to the boy and sees the 8-hours that have passed since he went to work that morning: a meeting, a doctor appointment, a loving note taped inside his lunchbox, a pit-stop at Gulf to fill the car up with gas. The boy looks at his father and he sees the last 8-hours, too: a new song, an invitation to Homecoming, a B+ on a social studies exam, a track try-out, and a fox sighting on the way home from school.

The boy and his father have changed today. The change is microscopic, but nevertheless there has been a change.

The boy watches his father reach for the kitchen cabinet’s little round bronze knob, and then the glass, and then the wine bottle. He sees the red liquid glug, glug into the glass, about half-way to the top. The father leans against the counter and asks the boy if he had a good day. The boy talks of trying out for track and an Algebra test tomorrow that hopefully won’t be too hard. The father smiles and reassures the boy. He turns his attention to the three plates stacked on the kitchen counter and builds a small salad on each one. Then he forks a large, tender chunk of steaming pot roast from the broth in the crockpot and carefully arranges it next to the salad on one of the plates. He adds a large spoonful of carrots because the boy loves carrots. The father hands the plat to the boy. How could he forget? He opens the door to the Frigidaire and retrieves a carton of milk which he knows, because his wife has told him so, is good for the boy’s body.

The boy is glad his father is home from work. He watches as his father prepares his mother’s dinner plate and two more glasses of milk. Glug, glug, glug, glug. The father, in turn, thinks about how nice it is to eat dinner with his family tonight. The breath in his lungs flows freely and he is glad the boy had a good day.

(3)

The man’s walk home from work is about three miles as the crow flies, perhaps four if you factor in his limp. He carries a five-pound bag of wheat under his arm, a gift from Mrs. Johnson for helping her fix a broken washer. The man would have fixed the thing for free, but wheat was hard to come by now and Mrs. Johnson insisted. Her soldier would approve.

The man whistles as he walks unevenly down the town-to-country road. Along the way he waves and calls out to his neighbor, Mr. Kanton, who is sitting on a rocking chair on his white painted porch, looking down the road. He is waiting for his boy to come home. His boy won’t be coming home, but Mr. Kanton believes the news to be inaccurate at times and so he waits and rocks and watches for his boy, every day. The man understands why Mr. Kanton does not wave or answer back; his focus, after all, is down the road.

The man can see his home in the distance and he suddenly feels tired. Things could be worse.

He is happy to be home.

The door to the house off the dirt path is propped open to let the air circulate. The boy meets his father at the door and takes the five-pound bag of wheat from under his arm, as well as his lunch pail. Of course. The father removes his coat. His feet ache more than usual today, but he decides that he will cook the dinner tonight. His wife is doing her part to help win the war, and the boy must be hungry. The boy is standing in the doorway smiling like nothing’s wrong and ‘Killer, you’re home.’ The boy sits his father’s things down on the little table in the kitchen and gives his father a hug.

The father watches as the boy turns away, whistling to himself as he passes through the living room and out the back door to the garden. The father stands at the kitchen window where he can see the boy pulling up purple onions and several brown-skinned russet potatoes from the garden. He watches only for a moment, and then closes his eyes briefly to savor his good fortune.

The boy returns to the kitchen and his father. The father looks at the boy and sees the 13-hours that have passed since he left the house that morning: a 6-mile walk, 8 hours on the factory line, a homemade lunch of cold potato pancakes and butter, and a nice chat with Mrs. Johnson before he left with the wheat for home. The boy looks at his father and he sees the last 13-hours too: a new song, an invitation to a dance, a B+ on a social studies exam, a track try-out, and a new calf birthed after school.

The boy and his father have changed today. The change is microscopic, but nevertheless there has been a change.

The boy watches his father reach for the kitchen cabinet’s little wooden knob, and then the glass, and then the pitcher of water. He sees the clear liquid glug, glug, glug, glug into the glass, almost but not quite to the top. The father leans against the counter and asks the boy if he had a good day. The boy talks of trying out for track and an Algebra test tomorrow that hopefully won’t be too hard. The father smiles and reassures the boy. He turns his attention to the onions and the potatoes and wonders how he’ll make them more interesting tonight. He’ll cook them in butter and parsley and season them with salt and pepper. Later he’ll make dinner rolls with the wheat because the boy loves fresh bread. The father hands the boy a knife. The boy washes the onions and begins to slice them carefully, but efficiently. The father and the boy work side by side in silence because everyone knows work is good for their bodies.

The boy is glad his father is home from work. He watches as the father prepares the onions and potatoes and pours three glasses of milk. Glug, glug, glug, glug. The father, in turn, thinks about how nice it is to have a home, a family, a garden, and his life. The breath in his lungs flows freely and he is glad the boy had a good day.

Written by: Stacie Gonzalez

The first time I heard the song, Peaches en Regalia, I was pedal to the metal (well, shag) in a Stutz Blackhawk with a guy who went by the name of Johnnie O. I picked him up off some lonely county dirt road just north of Lewistown, Montana in the summer of 1971, and to this day, lying flat on my back under the rhythmic tic of a ceiling fan, I’m surprised our paths crossed in the way that they did. I mean we were both literally out in the middle of nowhere: me with my windows down, long hair flying all crazy-like around my face, and the Stutz kicking up a dust cloud they could probably see in Billings, over a hundred miles away; and he was just standing there in the distance, his face to the sky with a cigarette hanging loose from his lips, his thumb sticking out uncommitted-like, a battered duffle bag sitting in the dirt next to his feet, and a guitar strapped to his back.

I really wasn’t one for company; men, especially, always brought me trouble, but something about the expression of his entire body registered with me that day and I made a snap decision to pick him up – the best and worst decision of my life, I dare say. I eased up on the gas and pulled up next to him at a slow roll. Watching him leave his thoughts in the sky just then as he turned to look at me over his shoulder was an image I’ll take to my grave. His hair was the shade of dark morning coffee and it fell in thick, liquid waves to just above his shoulders. Laugh lines had already taken their position at the corners of his hazel eyes. Faded jeans, weathered leather boots, a t-shirt with Jimmy Page pictured on the front, and just the slightest shadow of a beard was beginning to show around his jawline. Damn it, he was handsome.

“Where you headed?” I called out.

He seemed confused that I had asked him a question and kept on driving, but he picked up his bag and before I knew it he was running alongside the car, hollering back at me through the passenger window: “The mountains. I’m headed for the mountains!”

“Well today’s your lucky day,” I said back to him, turning down the radio and unlocking the passenger door, the car still moving forward.

“C’mon, get in. You can toss your stuff in the back seat.”

“Aren’t ya even gonna stop?” he asked.

“Nope. Get in or stay where you are, I’m short on time.” There was nothing more unnerving than looking for a place to camp in the dark, I thought to myself as the sun dipped a little lower on the horizon.

I watched in amusement as his guitar slid through the window first, then his bag, and then the man, but not before he tripped over himself trying to avoid a huge, dried up cow turd on the side of the road.

His name turned out to be Johnnie Oceanish and he had his reasons for being out on that dirt road, but I wouldn’t hear about them for another ten years. After making himself comfortable and offering me a Marlboro, he asked where I was going. I handed him a beaten-up Road Atlas that was folded open to the state of Montana and pointed to the top left corner of the state. I had been carrying that Atlas with me for a good many years; there were lots of pencil markings on its pages, but there was only one black circle visible on the page for this state. It was going to be new territory for me and I welcomed the adventure.

Three days earlier I had quit my job for no responsible reason; I’d just had enough and walking out on an impulse felt good. I went home, climbed the stairs to my bedroom, dug around through a pile of books and maps and files on the floor that had gone untouched for way too long, and exhumed the Atlas. Still without thinking, but with a surprising amount of adrenaline coursing through my veins, I took my old friend to the kitchen, threw it on the floor, grabbed a penny from the counter, and with my eyes closed and a cold can of Coors in my hand, I twirled around and around and around, sipping my cold beer once, twice, three times as I turned. And then I stopped and dropped the penny down onto the sprawled open Atlas. Squinting my eyes and steadying my body and my gaze out of dizziness, I smiled, pleased. Montana. I took a black Sharpie, outlined the penny, and said to myself, “Fuck it. Time to ride like the wind again. Wild, soft, violent, powerful, free, unpredictable.

As I hit the accelerator, pressing it down to the car’s blue shag carpet, my new passenger turned toward me in his seat, reached out his hand and said, “Thanks for picking me up. My name’s Johnnie Oceanish, but my friends call me Johnnie O and I’d like it if you did the same.”

I could see how he got his nickname – John was too generic and the “ish” in his last name implied “not quite enough.” Lord help me, but I could already tell that “not quite enough” was a long way off from what I had here sitting next to me.

“Pleasure to meet you, Stella,” he said, taking another long drag from his cigarette. He propped his elbow up on the window sill and grinned.

I laughed out loud at this. Stella was the name of my Stutz and it was engraved on a plate on the dash. I kind of liked him calling me that though, so I let it go. Johnnie O wouldn’t learn my real name for quite some time, and when he did, it wouldn’t matter because he would have already given me another name by then.

“Do you like Frank Zappa?” he asked.

“I don’t know, maybe. Never heard of him,” I replied.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!”

Johnnie O reached back in to his bag and pulled out an 8-track tape labeled Zappa – HotRats.

“May I?” he asked. There went that smile again. I felt a hint of familiarity when I looked at him and it was unsettling.

“Knock yourself out, but if I don’t like it it’s going out the window.”

He laughed and inserted the track into the Stutz’s cassette deck.

As the tape clicked forward and I could tell by the slight, scratchy quality of the track that the music would soon begin, I also knew that something big was about to happen whether I wanted it to or not. But before that thought had a chance to really sink in, the entire car filled with a bizarre instrumental jazz fusion that instantly made me want to throw both Johnnie O, good-looking as he was, and the 8-track out the window and tear off.

“Turn that off!” I demanded.

“But why? It’s genius. And there’s a beauty in it that will change your life if you let it. Just please listen.”

I listened, but I hated it and I fell into a seething silence. I couldn’t explain why it made me feel irrational and psychotic, but it did, and yet his attachment to it hushed me and I let him press rewind, play several more times that hour as we drove towards the mountains.

“I know your name’s Stella, but this song suits you even if you don’t understand that yet,” he said, looking at me like he knew me.

Johnnie O lit another cigarette and then offered me the pack. “You are Peaches en Regalia.”

That was 49 years ago. We both got our mountains, and now I’m known by everyone in town (when I make it in to town) as Peaches.

The ceiling fan continues to tic, tic, tic, and the light breeze of it is beginning to feel uncomfortable. My head aches like something I’ve never felt before, and I’m pretty sure I broke a rib when I fell off the ladder dusting the fan, and that the rib shifted on impact and severed a nerve in my spinal column – I can’t move. My stomach is growling in hunger.

God, I thought to myself, this wasn’t going to be pretty when the kids showed up in three weeks. Stutzy the Cat strutted softly up to my face and sniffed at the tear that had just rolled out of my left eye and down the side of my face. The music I had turned on four hours earlier shuffled again and there it was, Peaches en Regalia. I hadn’t heard it in years.

And then there he was – standing above me smoking a cigarette – plain as day.

“What are you doin’ down there?” he asked with that charismatic smile of his lighting up his face.

He knelt, put the last half of his cigarette between my lips so that I could take a much-needed drag, and then he laid down beside me. Nothing about my situation was worth questioning at this point. This was how it was going to go down, the end, and that was fine. I could have fallen outdoors or in the shower, and it would have been much more uncomfortable, but instead I was here on the floor of my cabin, going a bit numb. The stove wasn’t on, I had bathed, and I was decent. And he was back to talk the last hours away with stories about our times together – the good, the neurotic, the dangerous, the funny – and why I was not just Stella or Brooke, I was Peaches en Regalia.

~ Written by Stacie Gonzalez

It wasn’t until he put the gum in his mouth that I knew he was done eating.

Jiminy, I wondered to myself, what does a plate of steaming hot, glistening yellow corn and gravy-drenched, buttery mashed potatoes taste like to a person who hasn’t eaten a real meal in over a hundred years?

“Kindly tell me if you will, dear sir,” I say to the night’s visitor who stands before me in the garb of a clown, “has the meal I’ve prepared for you sufficiently warmed your tongue such that you’ll share the story trapped inside of you – one seemingly so tragic that it paints a permanent look of sorrow on your face?”

Long after I first set foot in this permanently shuttered brick building of odds and ends, I had grown accustomed to the idea that I would be here for, quite possibly, the rest of my life, and I had learned to anticipate a new visitor, whether that be a single person or an entourage, every evening at what I now call, “The Dinner Hour.”

Most of my visitors materialized stepping out of the paintings around me – each one from a different era – and every single last one of them was as dumbfounded as I by the unusual setting: a warehouse filled to the rafters with everything from kitschy crap to interesting trinkets to rare, priceless antiques the building’s owner left behind when he died 7 years ago.

Now the warehouse was locked up and no one had come to claim the treasures inside, largely because the dead man who owned the building also owned the patch of useless prairie it sat on east of Denver and, well, even if it was worth something he had no heirs to fight over it.

“Oh, it’s a long story that paints my face with sadness,” lamented the clown as I handed him a cup of coffee from an old cast iron pot I had discovered a year prior.

“Please do stay a while and tell me your story,” I replied, “because we still have a few more hours left before you must go, and I’d really love to hear it.”

Quietly the clown set his mug of coffee down on a 50s-style tv tray stand to his left and locked eyes with me in such a way that I thought he was searching for my soul.

“Rudolph is my name,” said the melancholy clown as he took my hand in his, raised it to his lips, and politely kissed it.

“Since you asked, and I am grateful that you did, I will impart the tale of a young boy, not yet 17, who fell in love with a girl so beautiful that the stars would twinkle in a magnificent display of shimmering golden light each night they met,” began the clown.

“Time stopped for me the night I left her on the doorstep of her farmhouse, the night she disappeared forever.”

Ugly pain washed across Rudolph the Clown’s face. “I shouldn’t have left her before she was safely inside, and I heard the door’s lock click behind her.”

Vivid memories of Cindy (for that was the sweet girl’s name) poured from the clown in a tearful stream: “We met in school … our desks touched … she brought me homemade food wrapped in wax … under a grey-green cottonwood we ate and dreamt and fell in love … she painted on my big smile … the circus … children laughed … next Barnum and Bailey … yes, she said, a train to New York City … so scared, so ALIVE … then death to my heart … painted my face with pain … children still laughed …

When Rudolph’s words trailed off and he fell in to a trance of sorts, I knew that we must have been sitting there for most of the time allotted for his story and that he would soon disappear and I would find him in the morning, once again imprisoned within a weathered silver-gold frame, committed to an old stretch of canvas hoisted up high on the wall of warehouse booth 12-A, gazing at his own sad reflection in a mirror.

“XOXO,” sings Rudolph, “kisses and hugs, kisses and hugs, good-bye my friend and thank you for listening and for the coffee and the meal and the gum.”

“You are most welcome,” I reply, “and now that we’ve met I will make a point to say hello each day that I pass by on my noonday walk through this place, and I will have a deep appreciation for the expression on your face and know from whence you came.”

Zipping up the light jacket I had put on when the temperature within the building began to dip with the approach of the midnight hour, I watched as the sad clown walked away down the aisle that would lead him to booth 12-A.

All the energy I could feel around me between the hours of 6:00 p.m. and midnight seemed to be sucked from the room way more abruptly than it had arrived.

Bedtime for me each night was only possible once the evening’s guest had left and I had had at least an hour to clean up our evening meal, decide where I wanted to sleep, and contemplate the new story I had been saddled with.

Canceling out the losses I personally suffered from being locked in this place for so long was the odd, momentary friendships and meaning I had found here; they kept me from losing my mind, from ending it all with any number of worthy killing devices at my fingertips: a samurai sword, a Boy Scout knife, a circular saw, a canister of 70-year old poison …

Death would not help any of us here.

Even if it brought me relief from my unfortunate situation, it would mean the stories that came to me each night would never have a voice, an ear, a release, validation.

“Fine,” I thought to myself as I dozed off and left my tired thoughts behind.

Grogginess lingered as I woke up much later than usual the following day, tidied my bedding and began an evening meal for the next guest; a guest whose light footfall could be heard echoing off the tile floor, approaching a bit faster than I would expect, from the far corner of the warehouse.

“Hello, my name is Cindy.”

Written by Stacie Gonzalez

In this exercise, I was challenged to write a 26-sentence story. Each sentence had to begin with a different letter of the alphabet and the sentences had to go in order (although I could start anywhere within the alphabet and loop back around). In this case, I started with the letter “I” and ended with “H.” To make things even more interesting, one sentence had to be 100 words long.  This was LOADS of fun; now you give it a try!

The task: Locate five words you don’t know. Choose one and insert it into a scene you write. The trick is to insert it effortlessly.  How’d I do?

Here are five words I’d like to commit to memory and use:
1. lodestar ~ one that serves as an inspiration, model, or guide
2. festinate ~ hasten
3. mercurial ~ characterized by rapid and unpredictable changeableness of mood
4. sophistry ~ subtly deceptive reasoning or argumentation
5. quail ~ to give way, falter; to recoil in dread or terror; cower

Scene 1 ~

All three children had fallen into a deep slumber in the back seat, their fate inextricably tied to wherever the road was taking them and whatever their mother decided to do in the uncomfortable moments ahead. “Why don’t you guys just go to sleep?” she had asked a half-hour earlier. “We’ll be there before you know it if you just close your eyes.”

The three days they had been gone seemed like a week. They had set off in the early morning hours. Destination: Ouray, Colorado. The last two years had been challenging for all of them, but she felt stronger now and knew that she could give them what no one else would or could: adventure. She could cultivate a healthy sense of curiosity and wonder in their young hearts, like her dad did for her when she was a little girl.

Besides, it was time to get on with life, leave the divorce behind and, well, get a damn grip. As Greg, her co-worker had said when she told him about the end of her marriage: “There are very few traditional marriages anymore. You aren’t alone. You were an exception to the rule for a long time.” Maybe. All she knew now is that she was once just a mother to the softly snoring boy and twin girls behind her, and now she was their lodestar, their example, which was so much more.

The tall trees present to her left and right were now just part of her general awareness and not something she could be sure of as the car moved along. The mountain road’s visibility was now limited to the 50 feet in front of her – just a brief stretch of gravel glowing in the headlights. Every few seconds a bug would miss its opportunity to dodge the windshield and come hurtling at her like a scene from a 3D movie.

“How ridiculous to get lost like this,” she thought to herself, as she reached for the paper 7-11 coffee cup that only held cold comfort now. She shivered on the first sip and realized she regretted suggesting to the children that they go to sleep. Now their slumber made her feel very alone, as if they weren’t even there. One sharp turn after another, she made her way up the lonely mountain pass. There hadn’t been another car on that road for hours.

Her mind wandered to the SPOT device Greg had loaned her that was sitting on the dash – a nice idea, she thought, but useless. It was also a nice gesture on his part, but if she wasn’t careful she’d find ways to equate its dead batteries to her friend and to all men for that matter. Surely it was mocking her, like it knew how low the car’s gas gauge was. Piece of shit! With her right hand she swiped it off the dash onto the floor beneath the passenger’s seat.

The moon was high, and the stars were out in full force – a phenomena reserved for solitary landscapes far, far away from the light pollution common to cities. Under any other circumstance she’d be enjoying the hell out of this, but not tonight. Everything was off despite her meticulous planning ahead of their trip. There wasn’t much left to do but consider how the next few hours before sunrise might play out once the car sputtered to a stop.

“It’s not cold,” she reasoned. “We could sleep in the car and surely someone will pass by in the morning and we’ll get help. But then again, what if someone stops and knocks on the car window in the night?” Fear had arrived and had slowly started to settle in. What once felt like great parenting – taking three young children on an adventure to make special memories – began to take the shape of guilt and doubt.

Imagination is an odd thing once the sun recedes and darkness comes. Every terrible scenario, condition, and demon seem all too possible. The Glock pistol beneath her seat enters her mind and momentarily delivers a sense of relief. She’s never used it before and she doesn’t want to. Her brother died holding a gun just like it to his head and now every make and model scares her; but, if it comes down to it, she’ll unlock the case and give the magazine a good shove up into the weapon’s body. Game on.

The car rounds another curve and fatigue forces a very close call – her brain is so sleepy that it begins to fail her and, in turn, fail them – the innocents in the back. And at that very moment she thinks she sees the “black dog” – the thing she’s been told people see when they’re exhausted, right before they lose consciousness. If you see it, it’s too late, they say. You’re dead.

She cracks her window and a cool breeze interrupts the dangerous lull she finds herself falling in to. She’s awake and she realizes it wasn’t the black dog she saw moments ago; it was an old mining structure just off the road to the right – a cabin, yes, it’s a cabin! And is that a lantern for Christ’s sake? How could that be? Any structure in this part of the state would date back to the late 1800s and be too dilapidated to shelter in. She couldn’t decide if this seemed overly odd given the late hour. It was so hard to tell what she should think or do. She brought the car to a slow, quiet stop on the dirt road and turned off the engine. The debate with herself over whether to sneak up to the window and get a closer look didn’t last long. They were lost, the children would be hungry in the morning, and the car was almost out of gas. She turned around in her seat to make sure the little boy and girls were still asleep and then, silently, she stepped out of the car, eased the door shut until she heard it click, and then made her way up to the cabin.

When we talk about the human condition, we are generally referring to the reality of what it means to be human. In varying degrees, we all share a similar physical, cognitive, and emotional existence. In fact, if you one day magically find yourself outside the boundaries of humanity looking in, you might visualize the human condition as a conceptual system that cycles through six key events – birth, growth, emotionality, aspiration, conflict, and mortality (Wikipedia). And our propensity to be extraordinarily contradictory in the way we behave weaves itself like a fine thread, in, out, and through these stages of Life. As a species, it seems we can commit the greatest of sins and offer the greatest gestures of selflessness nearly in tandem. This contradiction in human behavior is excruciatingly inexplicable.

As we grapple with our “humanness” there comes a point in time when most of us begin to seek to know and understand the meaning of it all. We question ourselves and we question others: How did I come to be? Why did he walk away from his job? Does she ache with regret when she thinks of dying? What is the point of my existence? Our thoughts also turn to moral concerns and how things should and should not be within our “system.” We each wonder where our beliefs and behaviors fall on the spectrum of human experience. Are we normal? The need to understand the “why” of ourselves is universal.

To make matters even more complicated and intriguing, there are numerous perspectives to be considered if we are to truly understand what is essential to our existence. For example, is religion an essential ingredient to human existence? What about philosophy? History? Art? Anthropology? Psychology? Biology? How do these perspectives impact our interpretation of the world we live in? Literature is another lens we can view the world through in an effort to better understand why we do the things we do and how we are either like or unlike other people. We look to literature for community, education, and affirmation that we are not alone in our joys and sorrows, or our contradictions.

Literature and, more specifically, writing, can help us see ourselves and others more clearly in relationship to the broader human condition. This clarity begins to take shape at the very early stages of the writing process when the writer chooses which writing tools s/he will use. The metaphor is a perfect example of such a tool. In their influential book, Metaphors We Live By, linguist George Lakoff and philosopher Mark Johnson explain that the essence of a metaphor is “understanding and experiencing one kind of thing in terms of another” (5). Lakoff and Johnson argue that “human thought processes are largely metaphorical” (6). This argument can easily extend to writing as well, in that writing is also a thought process. In fact, if we view writing as a process for understanding and experiencing the human condition, we can begin to conceive of a relationship between writing and the human condition that is also largely metaphorical. Consider the following metaphorical statement:

Writing is a barometer of the human condition.

In other words, when a writer writes, the resulting narrative is a shared experience. And this narrative usually takes both the writer and the reader through a conceptual cycle: an experience, a personal reflection, a moment of sharing, an opportunity for critical thought, and the potential for an evolution in behavior. This cycle is not unlike the Life event cycle associated with the human condition. Again, writing affords the writer and the reader an opportunity for mutual expression of the human condition: the writer processes an experience in both the planning and the drafting stages of writing, and the reader receives, reflects, evaluates, and measures the experience against his or her own.

Importantly, all genres of writing can impact and shape writers and readers. However, nonfiction as a literary instrument is especially equipped to elicit personal change; largely because it demands such a great deal of self-awareness, research, and adherence to ethical writing (e.g. honesty and truth). Just as a barometer is calibrated to respond to air pressure, a reader is calibrated emotionally to respond to the influence of nonfiction writing and to change his or her future thinking or conduct.

Writing truly is one of the finest tools for indicating and measuring changes in human behavior, but as a metaphorical concept, it also …

• serves as a point of reference;
• acts as an indicator of human nature;
• reflects a change in circumstances and opinion and documents historical shifts and changes in societal norms;
• provides a formula for other writers to follow;
• tests society’s level of tolerance for certain topics;
• signals changes in society’s attitude towards any number of issues; and
• facilitates reflection and functions as a mirror (e.g. a writer discovers him- or herself through writing, and a reader evaluates his or her place on the spectrum of humanity through reading that writing).

So, while my own personal metaphorical barometer is telling me I might have written this blog post backwards, and that I should flip it around and make the beginning the end and the end the beginning, I will let it go, recap the important points, and leave you with a final thought:

1. The human condition refers to our human need to understand the meaning of Life and the moral concerns associated with it.
2. Writing helps us understand and experience the human condition.
3. The relationship between writing and the human condition is largely metaphorical.

Writing is not just a hobby or an academic pursuit;
it is a gift of the human condition.

WORKS CITED:

“Human Condition.” Wikipedia, Wikimedia Foundation, 18 Apr. 2018, en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Human_condition. Note: The true source of this information appears to be the following text (which is inaccessible to me): The Human Condition & Our Common Humanity: ” The Common Traits of Human Existence, by T.M. Jefferson (2016). Accessed 11 May 2018.

Lakoff, George, and Mark Johnson. Metaphors We Live By. Univ. of Chicago Press, 2003, nyshalong.com/public/archive/20150131/20150131_ref.pdf. Accessed 11 May 2018.

This week I have been brainstorming – and fretting – over a challenge to sift through my memory bank and extract a story, one that is not only interesting, but compelling; one that might stress me out and make me cry again. There’s no way around it either. My next work must be in the form of a nonfiction lyric essay, and then I will turn that lyric essay on its head and place it in a container – a shell, a form; I will give it skin. Form will dictate function – not an easy task when it comes to nonfiction, a genre that often requires the writer to dig soul-deep and give life to the past. I have written nonfiction before and I can assure you that the process can be a painful combination of retraumatization and catharsis. And that’s the easy part. The true challenge is to pull the reader in with you.

Oftentimes I like to begin the journey of writing something new by revisiting any relevant definitions; this helps me orient myself to the task at hand and keeps me from veering off-course. So, here we go! The three words that will guide me towards my goal this week are:

Creative nonfiction ~ a broad term that encompasses many different forms of writing, such as the personal essay, the memoir essay, and the literary journalism essay.[1]

Lyric essay ~ a new, hybrid form of nonfiction that combines poetry with essay. Lyric essays are generally shorter than other essay forms, and focus more on language itself, rather than storyline.[2]

Hermit crab essay ~ hermit crab essays adopt already existing forms as the container for the writing at hand, such as the essay in the form of a “to-do” list, or a field guide, or a recipe. Just like its namesake, the hermit crab essay is a creature born without its own shell to protect it, and it needs to find an empty shell to inhabit. The key is to allow form to dictate content. As writer Brenda Miller explains, “By doing so, we get out of our own way; we bypass what our intellectual minds have already determined as “our story” and instead become open and available to unexpected images, themes and memories. Also, following the dictates of form gives us creative nonfiction writers a chance to practice using our imaginations, filling in details, and playing with the content to see what kind of effects we can create.”[3]

In addition to reviewing definitions, it also helps to review works penned by other writers. There are A LOT of good (and bad) lyric and hermit crab essays out there. I perused several literary journals and magazines before I found an essay that utterly and completely bowled me over with its authenticity, vulnerability, and power. The magazine is called Room, and the essay I’m referring to, An Atmospheric Pressure, was written by Nicole Breit. A word of caution: whatever you do, DON’T read Breit’s work at work. People will stop and ask you if you’re okay. Consider yourself warned.

So, let’s pause for a moment to give us both time to read An Atmospheric Pressure now and then we’ll take a closer look at the essay and a few questions about it…

Okay, we’re back and now I would like to present a few questions that should get your critical thinking skills flowing:

How does the form contribute to the meaning of the piece? 

Note: If you are reading this post and wish to chime in, please do so in the comments below. I’d love to hear from you! Sharing ideas expands the experience for all of us.

Breit’s use of numerals creates a container for her work, as well as a sense of time for the reader. I found her illustration of time to be a very physical one. I could sense it moving forward and back and ultimately stopping. I really can’t imagine a better way to organize this particular story than numerically. She could have used dates, but then the dates might have been a distraction from the story’s substance; the numbers were subtle, yet absolutely key to the progression of events.

Also, Breit’s use of omniscient third person point of view to walk us through a tragedy is incredibly effective (“omniscient” is a point of view technique where the narrator knows all the thoughts, actions, and feelings of all characters). Use of this particular writing tool intensifies the experience for the reader – it brings the reader closer to each character even though s/he is looking in on the events from the outside – and creates an especially poignant and emotional experience. This instance of point of view selection helps me realize how important it is to consider it as a tool when I begin drafting my own essay.

What literary devices make this piece aesthetic? 

Breit uses both word and structural level literary devices in An Atmospheric Pressure. Her word level choices include direct commands to the reader at the beginning of nearly every paragraph: Picture the girl. Imagine the boy. Know, Hear, Watch, Wind, See, Observe, Watch, Sense, Feel, Picture, Give, Note, Hold onto this scene a moment longer. Breit skillfully pulls us in, committing us to a direct experience, with her words.

Breit also uses at least one carefully placed metaphor: The girl is living in a snake’s body …

Structurally, the numerical shift that takes place within the story is critical to the aesthetics of this essay. After giving An Atmospheric Pressure an initial read, go back to the beginning and start reading again. You’ll see that the numbers place the story in an endless loop.

“The moment she learns he is dead is the moment everything changes: her brain, her heart, the future. Time itself. April 1, 1990 at 11 a.m.—the day they turned the clocks forward—is the moment she begins looking backward and never stops.”

The beginning of the essay is both the beginning of the end and the end of the beginning; the same can be said for the end of the essay – it is both the end and the beginning. Crazy, huh!?

Breit’s character development is beautiful. Both the boy and the girl begin as one sort of person in both age and life experience and by the time the story has “technically” ended, they are both forever changed.

What sort of ethics does the writer seem to be following? 

As a work of nonfiction, An Atmospheric Pressure is, necessarily, a true story. At least I hope it is. It feels true. Research indicates that Breit lost a close friend in her teens. She also recently wrote an article on love, loss, and heartbreak for Hippocampus Magazine, and she counsels other writers on the subject.  The ethics of nonfiction demand that Breit be truthful and not distort, change, or fabricate facts. She must not mislead the reader, nor should she deviate from her emotional truth. This is because nonfiction has the power to greatly influence readers. Breit’s tag line: for Gordy at the beginning of her piece suggests that Gordy might be the boy in her story and the close friend she lost. For more on ethics in creative nonfiction you can visit https://davehood59.wordpress.com/2012/07/03/the-ethics-of-writing-creative-nonfiction/.

Everything that Breit has mastered in An Atmospheric Pressure is exquisite: the numerical container, the metaphors, the descriptive language, the character development, and the honesty; she sets a great example for me to follow as I work on my own essay. I’m not convinced I can do it within two weeks, but I will at least begin and keep fine-tuning for as long as it takes to get it right.

[1]https://owl.english.purdue.edu/owl/resource/753/04/

[2] Id.

[3]http://brevitymag.com/craft-essays/the-shared-space/

The mid-day sun beats down.

Heat pulses off the rough dirt trail, and my blood pressure pumps thick – baBOOM, baBOOM, baBOOM – beneath my skin.

The tender area of my inner thigh throbs from the little fuckers’ bites. I had unwittingly stopped to survey my surroundings from the top of one of their mounded earth holes and it didn’t go over well with them. Infuriated by the mass casualties and destruction, they raced up my boot and pant legs, biting in a frenzy as they climbed.

Bite, injection, bite, injection. Toxic alkaloid venom seared my flesh as my body scattered across the terrain, leaping over pear cacti, searching for flat ground. I was desperate to take my pants off. I didn’t care who saw me in the hot sun: pants down around my ankles, white underwear, swearing in a panic; the pants just needed to come off.

Fire ants: One of the lesser risks of descending into the canyon.

Jesus. The heat is insane.

Walls of solid, earthy sandstone rise up from the canyon floor to my right. I pause a moment to consider them. The sun’s intensity triggers another crescendo of cicada chirping – they’ve been doing this for 150 million years.

My core is so warm and I want to wipe my face with my sweat-soaked t-shirt. I might later … my thoughts drift in a slow haze. Taking a long pull from my Camelbak, I feel the sweat bead at the nape of my neck and roll down my back. Slowly, I begin making my way forward towards two rock formations – massive and old – with a narrow gap in between. “I can fit,” I think to myself as I close the space between us.

One, two, three steps in – a slow, lazy glance – and my heart ceases to beat. I’m grounded in an indescribable stillness. It’s cool in this space – shaded and protected, but perhaps the heat I’ve spent the last few hours in is playing tricks on my mind? Oh my God, if this is for real … Extending my hand, I gently move my finger along the creature’s sandpaper back. It must be 10 feet long – at least. Slithering along the rock wall in an easterly direction, head erect towards the grasslands and the wide, dry Purgatoire River in the distance. I carefully touch it again; to harm it in any way would be unforgiveable. And then directly above I see a pair of outstretched hands – fingers splayed wide – a man’s hands. Reaching up I place mine directly on top of his, the same splay, but my fingers are slightly smaller; suddenly thousands of years in time are bridged. Gazing down at the sandstone snake, I realize how much I want to lie down in the sand, pressed against the cool, sedimentary wall, balled up like the rest of the desert creatures who seek respite from the noonday sun.

In today’s blog post we explore six-word stories, a form of creative non-fiction (or fiction as the case may be) that requires the author to capture conflict, action, and resolution in just six words. This type of writing takes a bit of practice and word play, but once you get the hang of it, you’ll discover that the six-word story process encourages contemplation and creativity and can be pretty fun! There’s even a website dedicated to the little wonders! But the best known six-word story ever written is the stuff of legends, and is often attributed to the famous author Ernest Hemingway (despite evidence to the contrary):

For Sale: Baby shoes, never worn.

Conflict: Why didn’t the baby where the shoes?

Action: The baby shoes are for sale because they are no longer needed.

Resolution: The baby died. Or?

I’ve listed 10 of my own six-word memoirs below. Crafting them took some thought, but anyone can do it. Start by noodling on a theme (i.e. intimate relationships, workplace interactions) or a memory of something that happened to you that others might identify with. Once you have a theme or specific memory picked out, jot down a list of random words that come to mind when you think about the theme or memory. Now quiet your mind and begin pairing and stringing the words together; flip them back and forth and inside and out, until they fit, have a good rhetorical feel, and make sense. I nixed several stories during this process because they either didn’t elicit the emotional response I was looking for or they were just barely interesting (e.g. I wouldn’t keep them as writing prompts for potentially longer stories).

As I invented my ten stories one by one, I worried that a few of them might be taken out of context, but then I thought: Who cares? Of course, they will! They are stories, and our personal stories are often shaped by others’ stories. The added challenge of personalizing a six-word story can be uncomfortable, largely because there is no way to qualify something so succinct. Too, part of what makes the six-word story so compelling is that the reader is left to ponder the writer’s experience behind the story. In other words, what’s the story behind the story? Let your imagination run wild …

1. Fossil fuels comfort Americans to death.

2. Trapped boy begs viciously, “Help me.”

3. God quit. Job requirements too demanding.

4. The town sprouted decay and flowers.

5. Every civilization is someone’s fossil hunt.

6. Homeless Wanted: Proselytizer’s Ego is Hungry.

7. Ancients stirred by cicadas’ rising song.

8. Nuclear volley to end world suffering.

9. Man kills self, sex robot partner.

10. Woman inadvertently finds freedom in divorce.

Now you give it a try!

Podcast: Writing for Digital Spaces v Analog

As a middle-aged writer who is beginning to catch flow and narrow in on the voice I want to use and the messages I want to convey, I often find myself wondering about the future of the writing craft. After all, I have a unique vantage point: one eye is on the past and traditional literary practices, another is directed towards the future and the mindboggling possibilities it offers people who like to read, analyze, think, and communicate. For example, sometimes I drive to the local public library and I search for topic-relevant books that I can hold in my hands and smell and connect with in a very tangible way; and at other times I surf the Internet, so that I can skim massive amounts of information and digest patterns and key terms in both an abstract and a concrete way. With the aid of digital technologies, I can amalgamate information and watch as my own thoughts sprout from there in a much shorter time than when I use pen and paper. But are my thoughts thoughtful in the digital space? Most of the time, but sometimes they are rather simplistic and not deep enough. In today’s blog post I will reflect on the affordances and constraints of writing in digital versus analog spaces – both can be used effectively, but each has consequences for the writing process.

What does analog composing afford that digital space composing does not?
Analog composing (such as using a pen, paper, typewriter, or Post-It notes) allows for reflection and precision. I think it also affords the writer more of an opportunity to infuse guttural human emotion into the written word. Word selection is more thoughtful and authentic when a writer is forced to stop and scour his or her mental database for just the right vocabulary word to represent a feeling or experience. I would argue that analog writing can be more personal than what a writer generates using digital resources. But in the end, to write is to communicate and whether we choose analog or digital tools to accomplish that boils down to how creative we want to be in delivering our message. Writing is writing – the difference between analog and digital composition has more to do with how effective and efficient you want to be in communicating your message.

Conversely, what does digital space afford a writer that analog tools do not?
As much as I love the romance associated with analog composition – sitting by a fireplace at my desk with a well-worn, leather-bound journal and ballpoint pen in hand, sketching out my thoughts – it is rife with limitation. Digital space composition, on the other hand, is virtually limitless. If you can dream it, you can compose it and share what makes you human with others who want to connect on the same level or who need to connect with others. Many writers bemoan the rapidly developing language of emojis, memes, and abbreviated words used online to communicate, but what if we were to accept these things and narrow our thinking to only the potential for positive outcomes for writers and literacy? Digital space composition affords the writer an ability to reach a much wider audience – an audience that spans the globe. It also allows us to inflect and stress words and ideas when we make use of visual and aural delivery tools such as video and voice recording. Suddenly people who can’t read can understand your message, people who hear the writer describe grief can potentially develop empathy, and the message you really hoped to convey leaps from monotone and reader (mis)interpretation based on personal experience to living color and emotive conversation! Sight and sound tear down barriers to understanding. Importantly, digital technologies allow writers to do what they want to do and be who they want to be in ways analog composition techniques do not (Jones 13).

Take for example, my blog on visual literacy posted in February. The “people in a park” image picks up where words fail.

By presenting you, the viewer, with an opportunity to challenge what you were reading visually as you analyzed the image, I was able to teach you to evaluate your own judgements and prejudices. Words can do this too, but by adding a visual component the reader is doubly-exposed and, I might add, more personally exposed to the experience the writer is offering. Colors, mood, patterns, and memories of what the reader has witnessed before all come to bear in seconds of seeing the image. This experience is so much more powerful and instantaneous than attempting to convey it in what would amount to a few hundred words. Using visual digital tools elevates the social experience and has the power to elevate the impact of the writer’s message on society as well. Many of us will undoubtedly remember 8-year-old Bana Alabed, the Syrian girl who tweeted from a war zone in Aleppo for months using the social media platform, Twitter. THAT is digital space being used effectively and impactfully. Bana has since published a book, but it is her digital space delivery that lives on vividly in my memory.

How has utilizing the digital space changed my composition process?
Once a writer is introduced to creating in a digital space, there is no going back to working solely within an analog environment. The writer is an innately expressive, creative creature who is desirous of conveying ideas and experiences; only in the digital space can this be done so intimately. Now that I have practiced delivering messages through visual and aural writing technologies and incorporating hyperlinks to additional resources the reader may like, photos that help provide context and depth, and playing with tone of voice and formal versus informal delivery methods, I can see that using digital space has quite simply revealed an entire universe of tools to me. It’s not unlike a child who gets a box of 8-count large crayons for their fourth birthday and then later spots the 152-count ultimate crayon collection on Amazon.com, available in scented or washable. There’s a whole lot of *more* to be had with the click of a button!

Accepting the good with the not so good.
Just as a writer working in an analog environment must take more time to decide what should be written and how, composing in the digital space has a few drawbacks as well. I know that when I gave aural delivery a try by posting a digitally recorded blog last month, it took me several hours not just to write the words that I would ultimately record, but timing and delivery were issues too. I had to play with the speed of my delivery, the inflection I gave certain words, the expression of sincerity, professionalism, and command of the information. The one thing I didn’t expect, but that really caused me some anxiety, was reading the same words over and over trying to get the recording right without error and then being horrified when my mind wanted to think about the process it was going through as it read each word. In other words, I began thinking about thinking and it really tripped me up! To wonder at how your brain is processing words one by one borders on psychosis, but for the sake of transparency I share it with you here. It is simply a constraint to be overcome in offering aural delivery in a digital space. Despite these slightly negative experiences, I can’t imagine going back to a pen and paper writing existence.

For all these reasons, I am excited for the future of writing as it evolves in the digital space. As a writer, I choose to embrace it all with a positive, hopeful outlook. Maybe one day our words and feelings will transmit from one another in a language of code (a virtualized language) that we write in the digital space, and that code will include everything the author wants you to experience as part of the story he chooses to convey – color, music, temperature, and even a vast historical or experiential knowledge base that you don’t already have. How cool is that?

WORKS CITED

Jones, Rodney H., and Christoph A. Hafner. Understanding Digital Literacies: a Practical Introduction. Taylor and Francis, 2012. p. 13.