So sorry I missed this! I missed most of November- actually, all. Election + severe familial disfunction = me staring into space a lot. May everyone here be well! ❤️
Sorry I missed this. I need to clear the rot from my email box to ensure these substack alerts come up. I would love to write in good silent company next time.
Thank you for this space Jeannine. I am revising a personal essay. Here's the opening paragraph:
“Maybe you and Terry will start dating,” said my ex, taking a bite of his BLT on white. Hold the mayo. I nearly choked on my own BLT. Rye bread, extra mayo.
That day in 2016, Skyway Jack’s Diner was crammed with chatty retirees in clunky white orthopedic sneakers, tattooed fishermen with sunburned necks bemoaning the one that got away, and bros in Callaway hats boasting about sinking that impossible putt. Had I heard him correctly over the din? I couldn’t hide my growing deafness, even from myself. Did he really think it acceptable to comment on my dating life? Not that I had one or even wanted one. I was so over relationships.
Thank you for the wonderful container today - so great to see so many people working on story together! I worked on my climate/dementia novel:
Mom shrugged and tugged on her shirt, straightening the printed graphic of knitting needles poked into a red ball of yarn so it lay centered across her chest; one of her favorites from the Central PA Fiber Festival. She leaned toward the mirror with an exaggerated, toothy smile, checking to see if she had anything in her teeth, then raked her fingers through her hair, sweeping the silvery wisps away from her face, seeming to recognize herself. My eyes welled and I reached for the door handle—I did not need to break this aching clarity by confusing her with my tears but whenever this happened, I imagined scooping her up and tucking her away in my pocket to somehow freeze her in that moment so she would never again look at me like a frail, gray-haired kid terrified of a stranger.
When I was a teenager, Dad used to say “Don’t let me catch you telling a lie/sneaking around with a boy/breaking one of my rules.” He didn’t say “don’t do that thing.” He said “Don’t let me catch you doing it.” He wasn’t a violent parent; he didn’t believe in physical punishment, though he himself was beaten as a child. He never spanked or hit or yanked or bruised. The worst he would do, if he caught me in an act of disobedience, was ground me after school and weekends. Keep me from being with my friends. But that was punishment enough, so I became very good at not getting caught.
Here's where the prompt took me - it's unfinished, but I'll keep working at it!
*
We gather around the kitchen table, united in our hunger. Accidental music issues from our utensils. Forks scrape; spoons clank; dropped knives reverberate sharply against the tiles. We laugh, we argue, we ask for seconds. Beneath the table, we kick each other’s shins, then arrange our faces into carefully neutral expressions above our plastic placemats.
What’s before us changes with the seasons – corn on the cob in summer, hearty stews in winter – and with the occasion. Box mix cakes claim the centerpiece on birthdays, sticky candle wax dripping onto store-bought icing. Marshmallow-laden sweet potatoes and canned cranberry sauce jostle for prominence on Thanksgiving. On regular days, the table fills with regular fare: casseroles, meat loaf, three identical glasses of milk. Growing food for growing bones.
We used to fill five seats at the table: my mother, my father, my sister, my brother, and me. Once my father moved out, his spot became a dumping ground for bills and permission slips, gloves and soccer gear. Kitchen tables, like children, prefer presence to absence.
Family dinners are not optional. There is no slinking away with plates to our rooms. No sleek TV trays lay behind our sofa like at our friends’ houses, ready to decadently unfold in front of the movie of the week. Meals are eaten at the table, together. End of discussion.
We do our homework at the table. We spread boxes of Girl Scout cookies across its surface, matching names to orders. The table is a runway for Barbies, a racetrack for Matchbox cars, home base for rainy day games of hide and seek. It is where our mother sews the buttons and zippers back onto our jackets, carelessly snagged on the playground.
The heavy wooden tabletop bears the scars of three children. A green crayon once veered sharply off the page, leaving a crooked slash across the southwest corner. Discs of dried glue dot its surface. Glitter from craft projects shines brightly from the cracks, impossible to remove.
Here's a draft of the poem I worked on during the write-in. This was so helpful for me because I have ADHD, and body-doubling holds me accountable to my writing practice. Thank you so much for this time together.
Thanks for the space today. I wrote my weekly Substack post during the time! Including:
After my dad died, anytime anyone would complain about their father—something of course we all do and I had done and continue to do—I would get so mad. “At least you have a father,” I would think. Even if they were complaining about objectively awful things. I wanted them to be grateful, at least a tiny little bit. To show some understanding that they weren’t taking their father for granted, that they’d lose something if he was no longer around, even if that loss was complicated.
I wanted them to be grateful as a testament to what the alternative could be.
I am working on a book proposal. I am thinking of using this as the opener for the proposal:
"Standing stream side under a cloudless September sky in 2012, Hovey Brock took in the damage–heaps of sand, up-ended boulders, torn-up asphalt, twisted metal, plastic everywhere–and as the hairs on the back of his neck stiffened he realized the climate crisis had sunk its talons into Frost Valley. That epiphany gave birth to the collected essays of My Crazy River."
Thanks Jeanine. I was channeling some of your post on what editors are looking for. It all seems to boil down to make it as vivid, honest, and present as possible. Anything else is a side show.
So sorry I missed this! I missed most of November- actually, all. Election + severe familial disfunction = me staring into space a lot. May everyone here be well! ❤️
We’re all in that same boat! We have about one coming right up. ❤️
Sorry I missed this. I need to clear the rot from my email box to ensure these substack alerts come up. I would love to write in good silent company next time.
We have another one coming up soon! Watch our headers for upcoming live events.
Great! Thanks Jeannine!
Thank you for this space Jeannine. I am revising a personal essay. Here's the opening paragraph:
“Maybe you and Terry will start dating,” said my ex, taking a bite of his BLT on white. Hold the mayo. I nearly choked on my own BLT. Rye bread, extra mayo.
That day in 2016, Skyway Jack’s Diner was crammed with chatty retirees in clunky white orthopedic sneakers, tattooed fishermen with sunburned necks bemoaning the one that got away, and bros in Callaway hats boasting about sinking that impossible putt. Had I heard him correctly over the din? I couldn’t hide my growing deafness, even from myself. Did he really think it acceptable to comment on my dating life? Not that I had one or even wanted one. I was so over relationships.
Thank you for the wonderful container today - so great to see so many people working on story together! I worked on my climate/dementia novel:
Mom shrugged and tugged on her shirt, straightening the printed graphic of knitting needles poked into a red ball of yarn so it lay centered across her chest; one of her favorites from the Central PA Fiber Festival. She leaned toward the mirror with an exaggerated, toothy smile, checking to see if she had anything in her teeth, then raked her fingers through her hair, sweeping the silvery wisps away from her face, seeming to recognize herself. My eyes welled and I reached for the door handle—I did not need to break this aching clarity by confusing her with my tears but whenever this happened, I imagined scooping her up and tucking her away in my pocket to somehow freeze her in that moment so she would never again look at me like a frail, gray-haired kid terrified of a stranger.
Here's a snippet from what I wrote:
When I was a teenager, Dad used to say “Don’t let me catch you telling a lie/sneaking around with a boy/breaking one of my rules.” He didn’t say “don’t do that thing.” He said “Don’t let me catch you doing it.” He wasn’t a violent parent; he didn’t believe in physical punishment, though he himself was beaten as a child. He never spanked or hit or yanked or bruised. The worst he would do, if he caught me in an act of disobedience, was ground me after school and weekends. Keep me from being with my friends. But that was punishment enough, so I became very good at not getting caught.
Love this, Phyllis. Love that twist of language/meaning between don't do it and don't let me catch you doing it!
This made me happy! I loved writing with you all and hearing your snippets at the end. Thank you, Jeannine, for hosting this! ❤️
Thank you so much for writing with us!
Here's where the prompt took me - it's unfinished, but I'll keep working at it!
*
We gather around the kitchen table, united in our hunger. Accidental music issues from our utensils. Forks scrape; spoons clank; dropped knives reverberate sharply against the tiles. We laugh, we argue, we ask for seconds. Beneath the table, we kick each other’s shins, then arrange our faces into carefully neutral expressions above our plastic placemats.
What’s before us changes with the seasons – corn on the cob in summer, hearty stews in winter – and with the occasion. Box mix cakes claim the centerpiece on birthdays, sticky candle wax dripping onto store-bought icing. Marshmallow-laden sweet potatoes and canned cranberry sauce jostle for prominence on Thanksgiving. On regular days, the table fills with regular fare: casseroles, meat loaf, three identical glasses of milk. Growing food for growing bones.
We used to fill five seats at the table: my mother, my father, my sister, my brother, and me. Once my father moved out, his spot became a dumping ground for bills and permission slips, gloves and soccer gear. Kitchen tables, like children, prefer presence to absence.
Family dinners are not optional. There is no slinking away with plates to our rooms. No sleek TV trays lay behind our sofa like at our friends’ houses, ready to decadently unfold in front of the movie of the week. Meals are eaten at the table, together. End of discussion.
We do our homework at the table. We spread boxes of Girl Scout cookies across its surface, matching names to orders. The table is a runway for Barbies, a racetrack for Matchbox cars, home base for rainy day games of hide and seek. It is where our mother sews the buttons and zippers back onto our jackets, carelessly snagged on the playground.
The heavy wooden tabletop bears the scars of three children. A green crayon once veered sharply off the page, leaving a crooked slash across the southwest corner. Discs of dried glue dot its surface. Glitter from craft projects shines brightly from the cracks, impossible to remove.
Ah! You wrote to the poem! I love all the possibility held in writing about tables, and this is no exception. Thank you!
Here's a draft of the poem I worked on during the write-in. This was so helpful for me because I have ADHD, and body-doubling holds me accountable to my writing practice. Thank you so much for this time together.
There Is Still Beauty Here
Here in the land of plenty
we regret & hunger for
the gluttony
of our misspent youth.
Before we were afraid
of our flesh & blood,
we were skinned-shin children,
all scab-crusted knees & elbows—
currency we happily paid
to run free.
Thin-thighed, thick-thighed,
deep-fat-fried-thighed—
gorgeous girls.
Now, our joints & tendons ripen.
We chase champagne
livers with emerald green juice,
name it detox.
Bleach & shrink & tighten.
Oblivious women
unaware
there is still beauty here.
Thanks for sharing this here, I am grateful to have heard you read it, and also now grateful to be able to dwell in it longer.
Thank you!
This is gorgeous, Danielle. So evocative.
Thanks for the space today. I wrote my weekly Substack post during the time! Including:
After my dad died, anytime anyone would complain about their father—something of course we all do and I had done and continue to do—I would get so mad. “At least you have a father,” I would think. Even if they were complaining about objectively awful things. I wanted them to be grateful, at least a tiny little bit. To show some understanding that they weren’t taking their father for granted, that they’d lose something if he was no longer around, even if that loss was complicated.
I wanted them to be grateful as a testament to what the alternative could be.
Oh, this is powerful writing, Erin. Thank you,a nd thank you for writing with us.
I am working on a book proposal. I am thinking of using this as the opener for the proposal:
"Standing stream side under a cloudless September sky in 2012, Hovey Brock took in the damage–heaps of sand, up-ended boulders, torn-up asphalt, twisted metal, plastic everywhere–and as the hairs on the back of his neck stiffened he realized the climate crisis had sunk its talons into Frost Valley. That epiphany gave birth to the collected essays of My Crazy River."
My substack is https://crazyriver.substack.com/, also free!
Really great opening, Hovey, and your. book sounds wonderful, truly.
Thanks Jeanine. I was channeling some of your post on what editors are looking for. It all seems to boil down to make it as vivid, honest, and present as possible. Anything else is a side show.
I am excited to join my first write-in. My free Substack is https://channelinggrief.substack.com/ Elizabeth
Really good to write with you, Elizabeth, welcome!