Snippets from my journal: blogging

As a blogger once said, “Make your reading work for you,” so I am lifting items from my journal that began August 8. Parentheses are my “comments” either before or afterwards, brackets denote the source.

*(Oh, gee.) “Paul Krugman, NYTimes: “Talking nonsense is what you have to do to get anywhere in
today’s Republican Party.” [from an op-ed in the AD-G.]

*Headline: “Tired 1853 home gets some love.” Within the article, “… home peeks out …” and “But its bones were good.” (personification) [Article on the Wm. E. Woodruff house in Little Rock, written by N. Wentling, AD-G]

*Sri Lanka used to be Serendip.

* Watered the dogwood and the zinnia bed using the new, $65 hose (industrial quality, after I’d asked Daughter to buy the longest and best quality) and the yellow, twirly sprinkler.

* Pictures of this-year’s teachers in the local paper. I knew only 3 of them. I retired 21 years ago, so that’s why. My colleagues have retired, too. Oh, two of those teachers were former students.

* (Good first line for an interior monologue story) “I couldn’t move away if I wanted to.”

* (Hotter inside than outside) 72 degrees! Seeing a hummingbird at the feeder for the 3^rd time, I added some cooled nectar. A lizard between the screen and the glass—for the past two days—is nowhere to be seen. (Why I keep the windows down.)

* Metaphor for ridding the Delta of drugs and guns: “pulling weeds out of our neighbor’s backyards.” [news article about Blytheville drug stings]

*Australia is a major coal exporter. [M. Innis, NYT/AD-G]

* Names – Nearvonna, Flinn (97), Annjanette, Tap (male), Edgar Gaston & Vivian—1918-era, Bowen, Charleszella.

* A hummingbird flew around the filled feeder, but didn’t stop and sup. (Darn!)

*Southside in Independence County is Arkansas’s newest city.

*Surnames – Pitstick, Spain, Gray, Jolly, Pace, Plum, Roseburrow. (Good word-bank for a story.)

* On porch swing with different pillows. The old ones were “watered” with the zinnias last night.

* Four more days till school begins. Then the early-morning traffic will pick up. Cats went out late last night and I went to bed. They seemed eager to get back in this morning.

* “… anguished, angered and ashamed …”—Ban Ki-Moon, UN Secretary-General. (Why didn’t I write what made him thus? I seemed only interested in the alliteration.)

* “ … the working poor who don’t have health care.” [J. Kasich, GOP presidential candidate] (This describes grandson Billy, now 25.)

*Places in Arkansas – Douglas, 1914; Eight Mile – 1915; Fair Oaks.

* One-hundred years ago, Argenta––which became North Little Rock––schools opened September 20. New students had to have a permit from the superintendent beforehand. [OTHER DAYS feature, AD-G] (What a change from today!)

* “Summer lasts 37 more days,” Frank Fellone wrote on August 15.

And may the remainder of your summer be filled with hummingbirds, robins, wrens, blue jays and cooler temperatures.

   c 2015 PL            

 

               

 

 

 

 

 

 

               

 

               

 

 

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End of sequel chapter and a look into a writer's group

END OF SEQUEL CHAPTER

and a look into the Hot Springs Novel Writers

 (concluded after two earlier posts to the blog)

        When Mr. Bloom walked to the front door, I followed, leaving the other ballots and the pad with all the votes on the table. “’Night, ma’am,” he said, doffing his gray beret.

* * *

         I had just finished reviewing my notes and deciding what else to add to the article, when Liddy tossed a memo on my desk. “Write this up, will you please, Celley?”

        The message read,

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

The five new directors of the St. Luke school board elected yesterday are Crassie R., Jerman B., Hulet P., Flossie M. and Quint W. Superintendent H. sends his thanks to all who participated in the election.

I gasped. “Liddy! Liddy!”

 

She was on her way back from the break room. “What? What?”

 

“None of these names were on the list I transcribed last night!” A flash of understanding suddenly flooded my brain. “Something’s rotten in Denmark and in St. Luke,” I told her. “The H.s obviously conspired and chose whom they wanted, thinking no one would know the difference. No wonder they treated us like country bumpkins. They had no intention of electing a school board. And they obviously had forgotten about me.”                 

 END of chapter

***

PAT HERE: Some of the details in these three episodes were changed for this serial, but the essence of the chapter remains.

 

While waiting on the published book, my thanks to Bill White, Bud Kenny, who has published his travelogue, FOOTLOOSE IN AMERICA, which can be found on Amazon with a free e-book edition if you hurry (see picture of cover below), and Gin Hartnett—all of the Hot Springs Novel Writers group for the astute critiques of both my book and Bud’s. Bill has 5  e-books available on his website at wgwbooks.com,  and we are working through another of his memoirs.

 

This group has always been open to new folks truly interested in writing who are amenable to suggestions for improving their work. Several writers from the area have attended the sessions a time or two, then dropped out when our method of critiquing didn’t fit either their personality or their goals in writing. Really, we’re a kind and charitable bunch of folks, but we want to send out to the world the best products possible.

 

ADVICE to those who get in too big a hurry to hold a book in their hands: Contract with a publisher/ editor who will actually edit (if you haven’t already had several sets of eyes read your manuscript) your work--for a price, of course. Most publishers only print what is given to them. At least, ask for a proof copy so YOU can edit it once more. Or even more than once.

 

Which is what I'll be doing for several days to come. The proof of HER FACE IN THE GLASS as an e-book is on my new Paperwhite Kindle as I write.

 

 

 

 

Second installment, "The Election"

SECOND INSTALLMENT OF "The Election" from HER FACE IN THE GLASS,  a sequel

to A Journey of Choice. [Names have been shortened on purpose.]

 

          Mrs. H. nodded; he passed the mic to the person on his left. “Go!”

           “Hello. My name is Flint B. . . .” He talked really slow. “. . . and I want to be on the school board so I can help us get some new bleachers for the band. It’s a crying shame that our kids have to risk their necks and their instruments climbing on those rickety––”

       Ding! “Next!” Mrs. H. reset the timer each time her husband said, ‘Next.’

     “Hello,” said the mother with two small children. “I am Darling D., and I would like your vote. I think we need to start a child-care program in this district.” She shushed the baby on her shoulder, and ran her hand across her own nose. “I would be willing––”

     Ding! “Next!”

      “Hi, y’all, I’m Guy O’N. from Mountain Ridge. I’d like to see better school bus drivers out our way. You should see how they drive those winding, narrow roads. The kids say they bounce––”

     Ding! “Moving right along, now. Next!”

       After a while I quit listening. At three o’clock, as the person next to me finished speaking, the final school bell rang.

     Mr. H. took the microphone. “Mark your ballots and turn them in as you leave. Mrs. H. and I will count the votes this evening and she will call the five who are elected. We’ll send a notice to the Banner as well. Thank you for coming.”          

     I was the last to leave and he snagged me.

     “Will you stay and do the counting as my wife calls out the names and numbers?” he said to me, apparently thinking I was some student’s mother. “I need to go to the office and see about things there. Thank you.” He blew a kiss to his wife, and, dodging a student, exited the room.

     Obviously, the man didn’t know I was a reporter. But, hey! This would mean I had a scoop. I stayed. Mrs. H. made room at the table and pushed a pad and a pen over to me.

     “All right, now. List the names down the page and the number of votes out beside each name.” She picked up a ballot. “Number one is T.––he gets three votes.” She watched me write down ‘T.––I I I.’ “Second choice is J. He gets two votes.”

     ‘J.––I I.’    

     “Third is G. He gets one point.”

     ‘G.––I.’

     She wadded the ballot and looked around to toss it in the trash can. Seeing none, she called to the janitor who was sweeping the far end of the room. “Mr. B., will you bring me a trash can?” He did and she mashed the ballot, balled it up and threw it in. I thought she might  chew and swallow it.

     “Next ballot,” she said. “F., three . . .” She waited. “B., two . . . G. one.”

     Again, she wadded the ballot into a tiny ball and tossed it away.

     “Ready? C., three . . . P., two  . . . W., one. My goodness,” she exclaimed. “What if everyone gets a vote and no one has more than three?” I shrugged; she continued.

     “Next. H., three . . . G., two . . . D., one.” She looked at me. “Would you mind taking over? I must run to the ladies’ room.”

     “Sure.” I took the next ballot while her heels click-clicked across the concrete. At last, some names reappeared. G., three . . . F., two . . . J., one. Still, no one had more than five votes.

     I don’t know how long I worked on those blasted ballots, but Mrs. Secretary never came back. Soon Mr. B. said, “Miss, five more minutes and it’s my leaving time.”

     Only six ballots remained uncounted. G. had ten votes, J., ten, and G. had risen to ten. The nearest was F. with seven. For some reason, I stuffed the counted ballots into my bag. Mrs. H. would have to finish the next morning.

     When Mr. B. walked to the front door, I followed, leaving all the materials on the table. “’Night, ma’am,” he said, doffing his duffer’s hat.

 

TO BE CONCLUDED NEXT WEEK.

c 2015--PL. 

 

A peek into the sequel of "A Journey of Choice."

HER FACE IN THE GLASS

by Pat Laster
[Available soon from Amazon in softback and e-book]

"The Election"

       Several years into World War II, St. Luke, Missouri, needed a school board. The former board had gone to war, along with several young men still in high school. 

       School Superintendent Louis H. seemed to like that—he could run the schools with no interference. But the parents grumbled. They wanted an election.
 
        Mr. H. and his wife-cum-school secretary decided on a plan. This was the note they sent home:

       “Due to parental insistence, a school board election will take place next Tuesday. PLEASE READ CAREFULLY. All interested applicants for the five positions will convene in the cafeteria at 1:30 pm. Those in attendance will be considered candidates and, if elected, be willing to serve for a year, beginning immediately. Please pass the word to any you know who might not have children in the school district. Applicants MUST reside in the district.”

By one-fifteen that day, the cafeteria teemed with people––old men still in their work clothes, harried women––some carrying one child and holding another’s hand––all interested in their school. I had come earlier from the newspaper to get a feel for the crowd. Several of the women wore faded and frayed shirts.

No one thought of name tags. But folks walked up to people, said their name and stuck out a hand. Superintendent H. had scheduled two minutes for each person to introduce him-or-herself and say whatever could be said in that short time.

            At 1:30, Mr. H. tapped on a thin glass. “Take a seat, please,” he said. The folding chairs––some wobbly, most all scarred by pocket knives or paper clips––were arranged in a circle, a formation that stopped at the head table.

          When the room was quiet, he said, “At the end of each two minutes, I will rap on a water glass––the pitch of which is exactly A-440, heh, heh.”  No reaction. Perhaps no one but me and the music-teacher-turned-librarian knew what perfect pitch was. If he had mentioned a rifle ping, or the sound of a hound baying, some might have understood.

        His rule was to stop at the clinking sound, even in mid-sentence, and hand the microphone to the next person, who would then stand and wait for the word, ‘Go.’

       “My wife will pass out ballots and pencils. After the speeches, write down three names, numbering them one, two, and three. The first name gets three points, the second, two points and the third, one point. The five people with the most points will be considered your new school board.”

        Mrs. H. stood and jabbed a sheaf of ballots to the persons on each side of her, one of whom was me. “Take one and pass the rest on.” She plopped back in her padded seat at the table. Her husband waited until all the ballots had reached the audience. 
 
       “Are you ready with the timer, Mrs. Secretary?”

        I saw him wink at her.

[Second installment next week.]
PL - c 2015