Six-Word Story

PB passed on a fun little meme: write a story in six words. It will probably come as no surprise that I’ve fretted over this for more than a week. I want my six-word story to be beautiful and perfect. Unfortunately, this is all I could come up with:

It rained Friday. She went anyway.

I found this exercise fascinating, actually. When given such a severe limitation (“only six words!”), it’s impossible to provide standard story-telling staples, such as “a beginning, a middle, and an end”. (There are exceptions, I suppose, such as the famous, “I came. I saw. I conquered.” Note that in Latin, that phrase actually comprises just three words!)

Articles present another problem. “A” and “the” are wasted words in a situation like this. This makes stories like “the cat chased after the dog” — there are two wasted words there!

As near as I can tell, Caterina started this meme several months ago citing the oft-quoted six-word Hemingway story:

For sale: baby shoes, never worn.

I don’t normally forward memes, but this time I’ll make an exception to tag Matt, Frykitty, Nicole, Michael, and Rich.

Site Statistics

This one’s for my little brother, who wanted to know how many people visit my Animal Intelligence site every day.

I crunched some numbers this morning, just for the fun of it. At my four active web sites (active as in “I post to them at least once a month”), I receive the following traffic.

foldedspace.org: ~35,000 visitors/month, ~1200/day over the past month, 9200 in the past week [traffic at foldedspace is holding steady — on the rare occasions that I have an entry picked up, traffic soars for a month or two, but then it settles at around 35,000/month again] — foldedspace has ~350 subscribers (who are all you people?)

fourcolor.org: ~1100 visitors/month, ~40/day over the past month, 280 in the past week [traffic at Four Color Comics is holding steady — traffic would improve substantially if I actually posted content] — I don’t track Four Color Comics subscribers yet

animalintelligence.org: ~800 visitors/month, ~30/day over the past month, 310 in the past week [traffic at Animal Intelligence is growing slowly but surely — I am happy with this site’s current state. It’s working exactly as intended. I post to it when I find something good (or when people send me things — Frykitty, I’m saving your cockie story for Valentine’s Day), and don’t feel bad if weeks go by without something to put up] — Animal Intelligence has ~25 subscribers

getrichslowly.org: ~105,000 visitors/month, ~4000/day over the past month, 42,500 in the past week [traffic at Get Rich Slowly is growing quickly — there’s no question that this is my primary focus now] — Get Rich Slowly has ~5,000 subscribers

In an ideal world, each of these sites would be growing quickly. But an ideal world doesn’t have all sorts of internet distractions. Or people wanting boxes. Or grapes to prune.

One of my goals for the next month is to actually bring Vintage Pop online. I just got Bibliophilic renovated the other day! Then I’ll have ~~six~~ seven active blogs (plus the flotch, plus my top-secret personal blog).

I’m a madman.

Addendum: In the past few days, I’ve resuscitated Bibliophilic and Money Hacks, which is a companion to Get Rich Slowly. Bibliophilic is averaging 4 visitors/day and Money Hacks is averaging 6 visitors/day. Bibliophilic has 2 subscribers; Money Hacks has 20.

The Carrion Drive

Near home it’s squirrels. Even on the rough-pocketed side streets, it’s squirrels, and often with the crows pecking at the corpse. “I have a theory,” I tell Kris. “I think the crows raise the squirrels. They nurture them. They bring them to fatness. Then, when they’re good and ready, they herd the squirrels into traffic. Squirrel is a delicacy for crows. That’s my theory.”

Sometimes it’s cats, too, but not very often. Cats are generally smarter than that. They don’t freeze in the face of oncoming traffic the way a squirrel does. Cats get it when they’re making some mad dash across traffic. They’re too cocky about their speed and agility, and they don’t quite make it.

There aren’t many cats around our place, but once you get toward Canby, it’s the cats for sure. Just on the bluff, near the fruit stand and the trailer park, that’s where you start to see them. And then down toward the Foursquare Church, and certainly after driving through town, heading out into the country again. The cats hit me in the gut. “That was somebody’s pet,” I think. “That was Toto or Simon or Nemo.”

But once you get through town, it’s more than the cats. Mostly it’s skunks and coons, depending on the time of year. It used to be the possums, but frankly I don’t see them much anymore. But I see the skunks and the coons. The coons make me sad — though not like the cats — because I think of them as smart. It makes me sadder still when it’s not one coon, but two, as it sometimes is. Sometimes it’s one coon in the middle of the road and one coon at the side. “Husband and wife?” I wonder. “Do coons mate for life?”

Today, at the bottom of Good’s Bridge, it was a deer, lumped in the middle of the road. I came upon it fast in the melting light, and at first I thought it was a body. A human body. But it was a deer, a small doe, slumped and bleeding from the head. It was in the center of the road, which is a good thing, because otherwise maybe it would have been human bodies, too, and twisted metal and shattered glass.

It was a deer at almost the precise spot where a week ago it had been a horse. I didn’t know it was a horse. I drove past in the morning, and it was a mound on the side of the road, like a pile of barkdust maybe, or a pile of dirt. It was covered in some crazy-quilt blanket, and I thought, “That’s odd.” But I didn’t know it was a horse until Nick got to work and said, “Did you see the horse?” “What horse?” I said. “The one at the bottom of Good’s Bridge,” he said, and then I knew it wasn’t a pile of barkdust or a pile of dirt.

But you know what it never is? It’s never dogs. I don’t get that. It must be dogs sometimes — I hit a dog once. But why isn’t it ever dogs on the road? Do people pull them off? Maybe they’re just not let loose outside like they used to be.

About a month ago, I drove from Custom Box to Sandy, by way of Estacada. Turning off the highway, heading up the hill toward Sandy, traffic had slowed to a crawl. “What gives?” I wondered, but then I saw: up ahead two dogs — a silky Golden Retriever and some little mixed mutt — were strolling down the middle of the road, following the striped line. It was like they were out for a pleasant walk after lunch. The Golden Retriever walked evenly, following the striped line; the little mixed mutt orbited around it. Traffic in my lane crawled along behind. Oncoming traffic came barreling around a blind corner to halt abruptly and then creep past the pair. That’s how it went: a car came barreling around the blind corner, and I held my breath because I was sure one of the dogs would get it, but the car would brake hard, stop, and then creep past. The dogs didn’t care. Traffic followed the dogs for a quarter mile before the pair found a side street they preferred and ambled off to find whatever it is they were looking for.

I wonder why it’s never dogs.

On the Proper Use of ‘Me’ and ‘I’

Listen people, this is easy: you do not always use the word “I” when speaking of yourself and another person.

I’m going to be called a grammar Nazi for devoting an entire weblog entry to this, but it’s driving me crazy. Over the past week I’ve seen this error a dozen times, and from smart people who should know better.

What am I talking about? We’re taught from a young age that it’s polite to say:

Jane and I are going to the store.

That’s well and good for the nominative case, when you and Jane are the subjects of the sentence. But it does not work if you and Jane are the objects of the sentence. This sentence is an abomination:

The man gave ice cream to Jane and I.

This is WRONG, and it hurts my brain. It’s like fingernails on a chalkboard. I’m serious. It drives me insane. Would you say this?

The man gave ice cream to I.

Of course not! Politeness does not take precedence over grammar. The proper sentence in this case is:

The man gave ice cream to me.

And if you’re talking about yourself and another person, then the proper form is:

The man gave ice cream to Jane and me.

I know that sounds wrong, but it’s better than “Jane and I”. Far better. And if you really want it to sound better, then ditch your notions of the polite and say:

The man gave ice cream to me and Jane.

However, the real answer to your dilemma is to use the handy clear and concise first-person plural.

The man gave ice cream to us.

Isn’t that nice?

Are you confused? Here’s an easy way to tell whether you should use “Jane and I” or “Jane and me”. Ask yourself: if this sentence were only about me, which would I use, “I” or “me”? Use the same pronoun when talking about yourself and another person. Seriously. That’s the rule.

You make Kris and I weep when you do this.

The Write Stuff

I’ve always wanted to be a writer. And if a person is defined but what it is they do most often, what it is they love, I have, at last, become a writer.

I spend several hours each day writing. I write for this weblog. I write for Get Rich Slowly (which, for good or ill, is now my main blog). I used to write for Four Color Comics (which is not dead, I promise). I write even more for my own edification. In fact, I’d guess that only about half of what I write is ever seen by anyone but me.

If you had told me a decade ago that I would be a writer, but not for traditional media, I would have said you were crazy. But that’s what has happened. Custom Box is still my day job — no question — but writing is who I am, what I do. (I’m even beginning to make a little money at it!)

I haven’t had much time to write during the past ten days. We’ve been busy with friends and yard work. Yesterday I had finally had enough. “I’m spending all day Sunday writing,” I told Kris. “I’m finishing my chores tonight, and then I’m going to sit at the kitchen table all day. Writing.”

And here I am. And here I’ll be twelve hours from now.

I am writing.

I am a writer.

These Little Things Which Make Up Life

from mid-April —

Noon.

Out for walk with Jason. Thermometer reads seventeen celsius. Sun is bright, though obscured by veil of clouds. Birdsong all around. Hum of lawnmowers in distance. Dead skunk by side of road. I carry a book to read: the Journals of John Cheever. “He meant by his writing to escape this loneliness, to shatter the isolation of others,” his son writes in introduction. Fascinating. Much about Cheever appeals to me. I meet Jason halfway and we walk east on Heinz Road. “A sweatshirt and a hat, huh?” Jason observes; it’s too warm for these. We talk about health care, houses, and books. We talk about dreams. Almost back to his place. I inhale deeply and say, “I love these smells: fresh-cut grass, the scent of the pines. It smells like a forest.” We say our farewells and I take out book again. A bee, punchy from sun, lands on my shoulder. I try to brush it away, but it is too groggy to leave. It clings to sweatshirt. I decide that it is not bothering me, and return to my book. My footsteps disturb a bumblebee by side of road. He flies slowly in parallel, matching my pace, buzzing, then lands on fragrant peach-colored rhododendron. No — it is the daphne next to it that is fragrant. Bee on my shoulder flies away. Birdsong all around. A flicker sounds its jungle cry. Robins chirp. Little birds titter and twitter. Pass culvert with running water — from where? Is nearby nursery irrigating? At corner, I startle pheasant. He rises up, beating air with his bronze wings, drifts across the road to new hiding spot, all the while chortling his gravelly call. I startle second pheasant, takes flight in opposite direction, skimming surface of field until he disappears into tall tuft of grass. He, too, squawks in flight. Across from Lams, long-haired black cat emerges from arborvitae hedge to gaze at me with baleful green eyes. “Move along,” he seems to say. Across from the Zimmers, boy is mowing lawn. Lawnmower has died, and boy — who looks about twelve — yanks on cord: pull, pull, pull, pull, pull, pull, pull. He gives up and squats by machine, unscrews gas cap. I pass skunk again, hold my breath. I look at Carlsons field: fallow now for three years and filled with unofficial Oregon state plant — the Himalayan blackberry. Across lawn and into office.

One.

Spring Reverie

Today, at last, the world was beautiful once more. The sky was blue. The sun shone rich and thick and warm. The trees and grass strained and stretched for growth. The tulips and camellias smiled brightly. In the late afternoon, the air was still and perfect: room temperature outdoors for the first time since last October. T-shirt weather.

The morning was cool and white. A thin mist hung over the newly-plowed country fields. Turning from Gribble to Oglesby, I slowed when I saw the bowed outstretched wings of an enormous bird: it swept over the pond, dipped, rose, and then landed on the muddy bank. The bird cocked its head and, for only a second, seemed to be looking directly at me. A tall and willowy blue heron, perched on reed-thin legs.

McLoughlin Boulevard skirts lower Oregon City, hugging the edge of the bluff which overlooks the river. In the morning, people gather at the side of the road to fish. They cast their lines from the short stone wall to the Willamette River below. They’ve been doing this for decades. (One of my earliest memories is stopping here with my grandfather to watch people fish.)

Today as I drove through Oregon City on my way to work, I smiled to see a burly white Alakaskan Husky sitting near his master, lounging at the side of the street, in the parking area, scrutinizing each passing car. It owned the place. It seemed perfectly content.

Arriving home last night at ten, I stopped to rub my hand over the bark of the dying clarendendron. The tree is a shell. Half of it has split and fallen away; the other half is hollow, clinging to what remains of its root system. I closed my eyes and took pleasure in the warm night air. I inhaled the sweet scent of freshly cut grass. (When I had left for the writers group meeting, there were at least five lawnmowers humming in chorus throughout the neighborhood.)

Something moved in the rose garden. “Hi, Simon,” I said, but he didn’t respond. He slinked away. His collar didn’t jingle. “Simon? Flash?” I walked over to see which cat was there, and the garden erupted in motion: dark striped figures slid into the boxwood hedge. One made its way to the sidewalk, where it stopped in the open. A raccoon! Several, from the sounds of it.

I backed away. I let them be. I strolled through the darkened yard, examining strawberry blossoms and budding pears. The raspberries are a riot of new growth. I stopped to piss under the locust, which is just beginning to leaf. Rounding the corner of the house, Simon bounded from the ferns. He trotted beside me as I finished my inspection of the yard. On the sidewalk near the fron steps, he rolled and flopped, begging me to pet his belly.

Spring is here.

Tips For Writers

One of my New Year’s resolutions is to write more, not in the weblog, but actual fiction writing. Andrew, Josh, and I plan to meet from time-to-time to share and discuss our individual writing projects. I intend to take another writing class this term or next. I’m excited about writing fiction again.

Sparked by a comment in the recent New Yorker Philip Pullman article, I looked up Billy Wilder’s tips for writers. These are actually screenwriting tips, but they’re applicable to other forms of writing as well.

Billy Wilder’s Tips for Writers

The audience is fickle.

Grab ’em by the throat and never let ’em go.

Develop a clean line of action for your leading character.

Know where you’re going.

The more subtle and elegant you are in hiding your plot points, the better you are as a writer.

If you have a problem with the third act, the real problem is in the first act.

Let the audience add up two plus two. They’ll love you forever.

In doing voice-overs, be careful not to describe what the audience already sees. Add to what they’re seeing.

The event that occurs at the second act curtain triggers the end of the movie.

The third act must build, build, build in tempo and action until the last event, and then — thats it. Don’t hang around.

(Billy Wilder was a wonderful writer/director of the forties, fifties, and sixties. He wrote and directed one of my favorite films, the never-a-dull-moment Some Like it Hot, which the American Film Institute named as the top comedy of all time.)

Unwelcome Visitors

Once again, a skunk has set up housekeeping beneath my office. I arrive every morning to a musky reek. By mid-morning, it’s given me a headache.

How do I deal with this annoyance? I dash off a poem about it, of course.

Unwelcome Visitors
by J.D. Roth

Said Mr. Skunk to Mrs. Skunk,
“I think I’ve found the spot —
Beneath that old green trailer house
Is where I’ll sling my cot.

The ground is damp, the air is cool,
The grass uncommon fine:
It’s filled with frogs and slugs and such.
The water’s sweet as wine!”

The loving pair, redolent there,
Made a home with a comfort air,
Filled their lair with a scent so fair
And settled for a nap.

Deep in their sleep, they dreamed skunk dreams
Of tender mice and tangerines,
Of spider kings and beetle queens,
All eaten in a snap.

They bolted wake come break of day,
Alarmed to hear the sound —
The clumping, clomping, human feet stomping —
Which echoed all around.

“Alas, my love, we must soon leave,”
Said Mr. Skunk, aggrieved.
“Let’s give a gift of scent so sweet,
Return when the humans flee.”

Perhaps the skunks will be appeased by my quick poetic tribute and begone. But I doubt it.

Comments

On 20 October 2004 (09:14 AM),
J.D. said:

Some points of interest (or not):

This is the first poem I’ve written in many moons. (In many suns, actually.) I tried to write one last year — “Harrison, Harrison, where can you be?” — but never finished.
This poem took me about an hour to write. I had just started when I mentioned it at 8:12 in a comment on the last entry. I posted this entry at 9:04. Between these times, I mainly worked on the poem (though I did two price quotations.)
The rhythm and rhyme scheme are intentional. I consciously broke the meter in at least one location (possibly two — I can’t remember). When I first started writing poetry in junior high, I was a strict adherent of rhyme. As I aged, rhyming became my enemy. Now that I am old and grey, I’ve come full circle: I believe a poem that adheres to a strict meter and rhyme scheme is generally superior to one that does not. Why? Because it is far more difficult to write. Far more. Blank verse and free verse are often lazy.
I wanted a very funny ending, but instead delivered only a mildly amusing one. I am not Joel.
This was fun to write.

And because of that last point, you can be certain you’ll see more poetry here in the future. :)

On 20 October 2004 (09:15 AM),
J.D. said:

P.S. I quite like my title as it is ambiguous…

On 20 October 2004 (10:30 AM),
Amy Jo said:

Replace the glass? Or give in to Scotch?

On 20 October 2004 (10:37 AM),
J.D. said:

Neither.

The glass shop didn’t get my pane cut yesterday (though they called me first thing this morning to say it’s ready), so Jeremy and I removed the moulding (from the outside — the stuff I pried away from the inside really was part of the door), vacuumed up the glass, smoked on the porch — a good pipe soothes the soul — jawed about life, fixed some good steaks, drank some wine, and parted ways.

Funny story about the steaks:

I pulled the t-bones out of the freezer on Monday and stuck them in the fridge. On Tuesday morning, Kris checked them for me and decided they were too frozen still, so she set them on the counter. While we were at work, one (or more) of the cats decided that steak sounded like a fine snack. When we got home, the steaks were on the floor, unwrapped, well-chewed. Jeremy and I decided to eat them anyway. We left them on the counter while we worked. When we came back later, there was Simon, happy as can be, sitting on the counter and gnawing on a steak. Damn cat!

The steaks were great despite (or perhaps because of) the cat juice.

But enough of that: I wrote a poem! A poem! :)

On 20 October 2004 (11:05 AM),
Dana said:

Okay, two things. First, on the subject of cat-chewed steak: Ew!

Second, you should stop smoking. Everybody should stop smoking. Tobacco companies are just about as Evil as industry gets, the impact on your health is significant (what happened to losing weight and getting into shape?), and it’s setting a bad example for the kids in your life (like Hank & Scout). Plus, I bet Kris hates it.

Hmph.

On 20 October 2004 (12:43 PM),
Paul said:

A SMALL step like completing a single poem may lead to larger steps that take you to the places you want to be.

Enjoy your creation, it is the perfect poem today.

On 20 October 2004 (01:03 PM),
dowingba said:

Is it intention that your poem randomly switches between an ABAB rhyming scheming and an AAABCCCB scheme? I find it disorienting.

On 20 October 2004 (01:11 PM),
J.D. said:

Yes, I alternated the rhyme scheme intentionally. That is not to say it was a good choice, however.

The first two stanzas are section A, the second two stanzas are section B, and the third two stanzas are section C. Sections A and C use the same rhyme scheme and meter. Section B is like a bridge in a song, really. (And, in fact, at first I called this entry (and poem) “Song of the Skunk”.)

I’m not saying what I’ve done is good or right, but that it was done with a purpose. :)

On 20 October 2004 (01:20 PM),
Drew said:

Best.Blog.Ever.

(Really. I love the poem, even with the unusual rhyme scheme.)

On 20 October 2004 (01:51 PM),
Dave said:

One is tempted to think that if the skunks leave when the humans show up, perhaps the humans might want to close up whatever hole the stiny ones use for access…?

On 20 October 2004 (01:54 PM),
Denise said:

Dave, you cannot apply reason when discussing skunk poems. Not acceptable.

On 20 October 2004 (02:45 PM),
J.D. said:

Here’s what kind of genius my brother, Tony, is:

He knows there’s a skunk under the office, he knows I’ve heard it moving around today, and what does he do? He comes in and jumps up and down on the floor.

Fucker.

I don’t think the thing sprayed or anything, but it definitely shifted. Nick and I noticed an increase in the intensity of the rank musk almost immediately.

sigh

And Dave: have you seen how much of the skirt is gone around the trailer house? It’d be a monumental task to close all the openings. Plus, if we did that, where would I get my weblog entries?

On 20 October 2004 (08:28 PM),
Mom (Sue) said:

While I was working at the shop tonight, I specifically watched and listened and sniffed for any sign of skunks. There were a couple of times when a knock sounded and that most likely came from under the trailer because there were no other people around. However, there was no smell and I didn’t see any skunks at any time while I was there. Apparently they are kicking up their heels and spraying during the night or as your poem says, when they hear the human feet clomping overhead in the morning and decide they want to try to get rid of you. :-)

On 21 October 2004 (07:01 AM),
Anthony said:

What fun!

On 21 October 2004 (10:52 AM),
Johnny said:

Oh Skunky, Skunky, wherefor art thou Skunky,
thou makest the trailer smell so funky.

Dressed in black with a white stripe there
you’re all dressed up for a stunning affair
never mind you’ve fur, not hair.

Oh Skunky, Skunky, wherefor art thou Skunky,
the smell in the office is so thick it’s gunky.

Though your odor may give others a fit
truth be told I don’t mind it a bit
even if it does smell like I’m standing in ca-ca.

On 14 December 2004 (06:08 AM),
Jeff said:

You ain’t smelled nothin’ yet, JD. Just wait ’til you get to work today…

On 14 December 2004 (06:10 AM),
J.D. Roth said:

Something tells me I ought to call in sick.

Adaptation

Mostly when I write, I have no worries about plagiarism. My writing is based on my life experiences; when I have worries, they’re not about appropriating others’ material so much as about revealing shared stories when I know other participants might be reluctant to have the stories shared.

Sometimes, though, I read something, or see a movie, and I say to myself, “I wish I had written that”. Often I think this and then forget about it. Other times, I’m compelled to try my hand at emulating the author, or at adapting the source material.

Something funny happened on the way to writing the short story for last week’s class:

I read Craig Thompson’s graphic novel, Good-bye, Chunky Rice, and a subplot affected me in a profound way. (Craig Thompson interview here and here.) Part of the backstory is that two of the characters, brothers, once owned a dog named Stomper. Stomper gave birth to a litter of pups, but the boys’ father made one of the brothers drown them. This event haunts both boys. It haunts me, too. It’s a great little story, and I wish that I had conceived it. I wished it so much that I could think of little else while writing last week’s short story. Instead, I spent my time adapting this comic book to prose.

This raised a lot of complex questions. Quite obviously, Craig Thompson wrote this story in its original form. At what point does it become mine? Simply when I’ve converted it to prose? I don’t think so. When I’ve changed the names of all the characters? I don’t think so. Then when? Can it ever become mine?

How do I make the story mine?

As I’ve only written a first draft, I don’t feel tremendous pressure for complete immediate ownership of the story. For now, I’m content to have adapted the section from the comic book, making what changes occurred to me, fleshing out certain aspects, and adding to the story in one significant respect. I worked to incorporate elements of the myth of Artemis/Diana into the story. By doing this — and adding an “inspired by the work of Craig Thompson” to the byline — I feel that the story is beginning to become mine. But is it really? I mean, I’ve lifted some dialogue and phrasing directly from Armstrong’s comic.

I’m delved deep into a grey area, and I don’t know where the line is.

Ultimately, if I was ever to be truly happy with this story, and wanted to publish it, and still felt it was too similar to the source material, I would actually contact Armstrong to ask his permission to use his idea.

I’ve posted the first draft of Harbinger for you to read. (Remember: this is a first draft. I welcome comments and suggestions. I’m not going to be hurt or offended by anything you say. In fact, any advice you can give at this point is going to make the story stronger and, more importantly, more mine and not Thompson’s.) If I had the time, I’d scan the relevant panels from the comic and post them for you to compare with the story.

While doing yardwork on Saturday morning, several changes occurred to me, all of which help differentiate the story from Thompson’s.

The most important change I could make (but have no plans to do so — yet) is to alter the ending. The ending is a literal adaptation from Thompson. If I were to change the ending (and that would be difficult, because I love the ending), then the only remaining strongly-shared element of the stories would be the drowning of the puppies. At that point, I’d probably feel I owned my story.

For now though, I’m working on more writerly concerns. My classmates noted, once again, that I need to develop the characters more, to explain their motivations, to make them more complex, to show the dynamics of their relationships. They also felt the actual drowning scene was rushed. Great points.

To that end, my second draft will feature more background regarding the father, who becomes “a hard man, though he was not mean”. The father will have a personal relationship with the dog, Diana, so that when he orders the pups drowned, it carries more weight, and has a (more) rational basis. There’ll be more detail regarding the dog’s pregnancy. All three characters will watch the birth. Pa will be happy to have the puppies at first, but when he returns from his logging job, he’ll be dismayed at the manner in which Diana has wasted away. He’ll have Alex drown the puppies because he can’t do it himself. Etc.

The character development in the first draft was constrained by the assignment. Some of these constraints have been lifted for the second draft, and we’re supposed to add five pages to the story. That’s plenty of room to flesh out the characters and their relationships, and to work toward making the story more fully mine.

Comments

On 04 May 2004 (03:14 PM),
kaibutsu said:

I think it’s all grey area, really; a question of how much we want to try to draw lines separating ‘my’ ideas from ‘yours.’ Sure, there’s a legal question possibly involved if your were to publish it, but there’s so much adaptation and reworking of other stories out there that it’s hard to say that this story of the drowning of the puppies – a kind of story definitely told before – is plagiarism. (In fact, I think the worst you could be accused of is theft of intellectual property – plagiarism probably doesn’t even strictly apply, unless you are copying dialogue word-for-word.)

Shakespeare did this all the time, for just about every play he wrote, actually, adapting specific pieces of fiction and history to his theatrical versions.

This touches your biographical material, as well: where is the line between something that is your story, for your biography, and someone else’s story? Does it have to do with being a central character, as opposed to merely a spectator? Do you even have to neccesarily be present at an event in order to be allowed to tell the story? (Aren’t the stories of our grandparents somehow also ours?)

I don’t think we can draw bright lines around our stories, saying this one is mine and this one isn’t, any more than we can around our lives, saying this experience is mine, while that one was my brother’s. We share experience, we share stories. (And I tend to think that the distinction even between experience and story is a fuzzy one…)

The child I tutor is currently doing a project for school, in which he has a partner and the two are essentially role-playing the pioneer’s trip to Oregon. Each day, they have to write a journal entry on what happened, how things are going, etc. Jason likes the kid he works with a lot, and they talk about what’s going to happen to their characters, And yesterday he started talking about some great idea they had which would affect his partner’s character, Mr. Morris. Jason, though, was opposed to writing about this in his own journal, because it concerned Mr. Morris rather than Mr. Text (his own character). Here’s a nine-year-old kid with apparently highly developed idea of what constitutes intellectual theft.

Given that on the previous day he wrote rather remorselessly about shooting a couple of Sioux who tried to take his food, I tend to worry about where our moral priorities are placed.

On 04 May 2004 (04:59 PM),
J.D. Roth said:

Mom writes:

Reading your blog today reminded me of a story about your dad, and I thought you might be interested in it. When we first moved out here and into the trailer house when you kids were little, we acquired two black lab puppies, Sarah and Abraham. As you grew, they did too, until they got to the point where they were big enough to push you and Jeff down in their exuberance. We didn’t know what to do about that but both your dad and I felt for sure that we needed to get rid of them before they hurt one of you boys. Uncle Norman came up with the solution — he thought your dad ought to shoot them, which is what Uncle Norman did with unwanted dogs, even those who wandered across his property. Your dad said okay and came down here in the field near this place and got back far enough to take aim and shoot. He said it was one of the hardest things he had ever done, with those trusting eyes looking back at him, but since Uncle Norman was there, he didn’t feel he could back down. So he went ahead and shot them. He never considered doing that again.

I do remember this story, and have thought of it often in the past two weeks. It’s precisely why Thompson’s bit about drowning the puppies is so affecting. There’s a biographical connection with my own life.

I think Mom’s version above is much better than anything I could have produced. It encapsulates everything I love and hate about my father, why I have such mixed emotions when I remember him. He loved his children enough to protect them from thoughtless animals, yet something in him forced him to choose the worst possible way of dealing with the problem. And that choice haunted him for the rest of his life. He told me the story of Sarah and Abraham many times as I was growing up. It gnawed at him, I could tell.

Dad was a complex guy, and my feelings for him are equally complex. I’ve noticed that many of my stories are basically therapy as I attempt to reconcile my conflicted feelings about him.

Perhaps there’s a way to incorporate the story of Sarah and Abraham into the story I’m trying to tell.

On 04 May 2004 (07:50 PM),
Virginia said:

Maybe it has something to with the fact that
your dad’s dad loved to tease animals. Your dad may have liked them inside but didn’t know how to deal with animals, if the animals needed to be delt with.

On 04 May 2004 (07:50 PM),
tammy said:

My dad shot dogs all the time. We’d bring home a stray and he’d let it stay until it started dragging stuff around the yard or causing some sort of other trouble and first thing you know, we’d come home from school to find the dog was gone. Pop had shot it. Every spring he drowned all the new barn kittens. In the spring we’d have as many as 25 cats around there. Into the bag they’d go along with a heavy brick and that was the last of them.

We could name the meat in the fridge; what pet was wrapped in each package of hamburger or steak. We ate the bunnies, we ate the chickens, we ate our pigs, we ate our cows. We even ate the bear that came to the orchard to steal the fruit we ate. I was traumatized by none of this. It was just the way things were.

On 04 May 2004 (07:52 PM),
tammy said:

We posted at the same time mother. Didn’t know you were on now.

On 04 May 2004 (08:41 PM),
Virginia said:

Tammy, I honestly believe you are going to be the ruin of me!