Hello Mr. Heminguay... For The Writer In You!

     Hello Mr. Heminguay      I invited a writer over this morning to my mother's porch.     

       (For Warner,
        who loves Papa Hemingway)           

 

                      
            
                                                 He drank espresso and chatted with me

                   about his trips to Havana and some big fish he caught there. I asked him if I could pick his brain about writing. He looked at me with a twinkle in his eyes. Then, after a grin that spread a salt and peppered beard he said,

                                  "Could you make me a mojito?"
                                  I scratched my head and said, "Is that all it would take?" I never made one of those before..."Mami!"
                 

                     And then, after some finagling...

               "So Mr. Hemingway, what would you tell a beginning writer? What's the big, big rule?"
                 
               "There's no rule on how to write. Sometimes it comes easily and perfectly; sometimes it's like drilling rock and then blasting it out with charges."

                "Oh, me. Writing sounds...."

                "There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed."
               
                "Oh, no. Don't know if...."

                "My aim is to put down on paper what I see and what I feel in the best, simplest way. A writer must write what he needs to say, not speak it."
               
                 "Well, Mr. Hemingway, I know you're the authority on that. But, how about those characters you create? How did...?"

                  "When writing a novel a writer should create living people; people, not characters. A character is a caricature."

                  "Well, Mr. Hemingway, I'm speechless. Extraordinary this conversation. Unreal!"

                  "How about more cafecito then. Call your Mama."

                  "Mami, Mr. Hemingway wants more cafe!"

                  "Aqui, aqui, we'll make it. Anything Mr. Heminguay want we give. Mi casa es su casa!"


        * The above was formulated after finding quotes of Ernest Hemingway about writing. What he speaks in this dialogue about writing are his exact words. Rather than to share in a list some of Hemingway's wise words about writing I've attempted to communicate them in a different way.

            So, what about Hemingway's writings inspires you the most? And, if you could sit at a porch like the one above and speak to him, what would you have said? What would you have asked him about writing or about his life?

Do You Know Who Are The Ladies In White?

 Do You Know Who Are The Ladies In White?

          Seventy human rights defenders, independent journalists, and independent librarians were

arrested by the Cuban government in the Spring of 2003. These were sentenced to 28 years in prison.

           Two weeks after the arrest, The Ladies in White group was formed. These women are relatives of the prisoners arrested and sentenced. Their white attire is reminiscent of the Argentine Madres de Plaza de Mayo, mothers who dressed in white demanding information about their missing children from the 1970s military junta. The color white was also chosen to symbolize peace. These ladies bravely protest the imprisonment of their loved ones by attending Mass each Sunday wearing white and then walking through the streets.

           Each of the women, of The Ladies in White, wears a button with a picture of her jailed relative and the number of years to which he has been sentenced.

          In 2005 the movement received the Sakharov Prize for Freedom of Thought from the European Parliament.

          The group's leader, Bertha Soler, hopes to meet with Pope Benedict, to deliver a list of 46 people they consider political prisoners in Cuba, and ask him to intercede on their behalf.                                   

                                                                      

           * Today, I've searched for white clothes in my closet. My body  draped with my identification  with the women of Cuba, The Ladies In White.

              This day, though miles away, my being is at half-mast. I extend my heart to you, my sisters in Cuba. ¡Libertad! ¡Libertad!

Acting To Write - First Class

Acting To Write - First Class

         On the left wall, floor to ceiling mirrors reflect my movements. Comical... I'm already a mime? The room probably used as a dance studio has a sense of openness. Openness. I covet that same sense for my mind and heart. I want to absorb much from this class. I check out my watch... ten minutes to class and no one else here but  mirrors, chairs, and echoes of silence.

         Another look around and I detect the white easel board with the letters. ING. What is that?

The door slams open and people scurry. College age girls and guys, three ladies appearing to be in their forties, young men, Hispanic, Black, fill seats. I think Oh Lord, give me someone my age. Two more ladies come in. Bingo! They're about my age. Eh... the age of a woman with children in their thirties and with grandchildren. All  join me in the circle of chairs. The group about twenty.  A figure strolls in with white T-shirt and cap. His skin's beautiful darker than dark. Like rich Austrian chocolates. He opens his lips. "Hi, my name is Rammney. I'm your Acting teacher for the summer semester. Welcome." 

          His lips stay open with a wide smile and his teeth...his teeth look like the white keys on a brand new piano. Just minutes flash and  he already has my liking and  "a glue to that piano"  attention. I'm thinking Rammney will play sweet music for us with that smile.

          He lets us talk. Each one takes turns. We learn something about each other, the reasons we're  here. Some come encouraged by bosses, who thought they needed more confidence in their jobs, making presentations. Others're here for the real deal. They want to go to Hollywood. Then, there're those like me, who want to experience the world of acting. And one also like me, that desires  to use the experience in order to improve her writing.

         The tales shared, Rammney stands up to teach.

      "Ok. The first lesson in Acting is ING." He touches the board. "Anybody knows what I mean?"  The room is mute. Everyone waiting for the bird of wisdom to descend and nest.  

        "ING. Stands for what we attach to the end of action words.  Acting is DOING! Remember that. Acting is DOING!"  Rammney points at the board once more then, takes the marker and begins to write.

           "The second lesson in Acting is, what does your character want? Again, what does your character want? He or she has to want something...and want it BAD."

             The two hours speed by like winks. After, I drive home in a daze sorting out the information, trying to organize thoughts into their right drawers. How was all this going to help my writing?

                P.S. How would the information of that first class help a writer?  Could any of my writing friends share? Like to know if someone sees something different from what I receive.

The Struggle

   Looking through papers today I found some poems I wrote when I started writing.
   I thought, this poem reflects the emotions I experienced in The Right To Grunt.

               The Struggle    by Marggie Rassler

                Today I feel like writing,
                The Spirit leads my sails.
                The waves of thoughts are rolling,
                Toward shores of untold-tales.

                This day I hush the ogre,
                That rides upon my soul,
                Demanding Grief to feast on me,
                Choking Stimulus with his hold.

                This moment I lock up Suffering,
                That consumes my very being,
                Send the key to My Creator,
                To deal harshly with this fiend.

                Tomorrow that Houdini
                Will try to come again,
                So I'll let God's Inspiration,
                Run him over like a train!

My Family by Savannah Smith

   A Granddaughter's Writing.   My Family by Savannah Smith

My Family   ----   Compliments

Dad - I like my dad because he takes me out on dates.

Mom - I like my mom because she thinks of me before herself.

Jordan - I like Jordan because she is fun to play with and encourages me to read my Bible.

Joshua - I like Joshua because he is cute and says funny things.

Nutmeng - I like Nutmeg because she nuzzles.

         
  Why Doughnouts Have Holes
        
 The first reason of why doughnuts have holes is because doughnuts need room to breathe. They also need room to see and blow their noses. Those are some reasons why they need holes. When the holes are popped out, the holes are their babies.

The Right To Grunt

      

         Dear Reader,  the writing below is of spiritual material. I want to tell you that because I do not want to draw anyone in with false pretenses. I will understand if someone does not want to read it. At the same time I want to thank all those who have read my blogs. I so much would like to encourage, inform, inspire and yes, also try to entertain with the writings. Thank you for visiting  me.

    

 The Right To Grunt 

The room is small, well-lit, clean. The metal table we place our dog on... cold like my hands.

My Jack Russell terrier stands one leg shaking. We wait for what we hope is a casual exam, for the doctor to say, "He's got an infection or a swollen gland. He'll be fine."

       The vet touches the small protruding spot. He puts on gloves. Fingers penetrate our dog.

We hold on to him. He grunts. I ache. His penetration reaches right into my heart. The veterinarian's assistance comments, "Oh, he's such a good puppy! Only grunts. Others try to bite."  I pet his face. He grunts again. My poor dog. He trusts us and we're allowing this. His owners, his masters, his Mom and Dad. I think to myself, "Grunt my doggy. I understand."   

        The exam is finished and the torture for both dog and man stops. Dr. Gregory responds with his usual calm manner and  his words, " It's probably a cyst... something we can lance. Bring him in and we'll take care of it."  I hear only one word, probably. I study the doctor's face searching...probably is a word I've heard from doctors before. No guarantees. If it were metal it would be a thin, crushable tin.               

         The call comes. I step into the land mine.

         "It's cancer. Not a good place to operate. Can cause damage. Better  left alone."

          The doctor's voice tunnels away. The call finishes. I place the phone back in its place where I'm not and go seek my dog. I hold his body close, his fur soft on my lips. I kiss him and kiss him while inside me I hear loud grunting. My soul speaks to Him. "I trust You. And You're allowing this? My Owner. My Master, My Father, My Dad."  The words I said to my precious Checkers at the vet's come back,  directed to me like an answer. " Grunt my daughter, I understand."

      

St. Patrick Who?

           St. Patrick Who?                       

           My grandchildren asked about St. Patrick today. I thought it would be fun to look up some information. After all... what do I know about St. Patrick?
                
                
            1. When St. Patrick was sixteen, he was captured in Britain by Irish raiders and taken as a slave to Ireland.
            2.  During his captivity in Ireland he spent six bleak years as a herdsman. It was then he turned with fervour to his faith.
            3.  He experienced a dream in which he heard that a ship, in which to escape, was ready for him. He believe this guidance. Soon after, he fled his master and found passage to Britain.
            4.  Once in Britain things still didn't go well. He came near starvation and suffered a second brief captivity before he was reunited with his family.
            5.  St. Patrick wrote his spiritual autobiography, Confessio, which tells about another dream he experienced.
            6.  In this second dream he said "The Voice of the Irish" summoned him.
            7.  He waivered in going back to Ireland believing he was not equipped enough for the work to be done.
            8.  St. Patrick finally decided to obey the call even though he lived afterward in constant danger of martyrdom.
            9.  With his great faith in his Maker St. Patrick journeyed far, baptizing with untiring zeal still under extreme danger in Ireland.
          10.   St. Patrick is known not only for his spiritual work in Ireland but also as a religious diarist who bared his inmost soul.

                    So what jumps out at me through all of this information?  I have to say that which I placed in italics. His dreams. The spiritual guidance he received in dreams is fascinating to me. In an age and place where our worldview often disregards even the possibility of dreams as a form of communication from above... this grabs me!  Most of the time we toss it aside. I've heard it said,

  "Oh, it's your subconscious."  Or  "Oh, it's just a bit of undone potato. An undigested bit of beef!"
                     I think there's maybe food for thought here. Pardon the pun! Maybe if we were open to dreams as means of communication, we would be like some of the people I know, who finally get a cellular phone. They often tell me, " I used to miss so many calls. How did I ever do without one?"  But why should anyone give us a call on a cellular phone if we don't even own one?
  
                                                               Just a thought.
                                         
                       

My Writing Friends

       My Writing Friends
      
      Table legs screech their bimontly complaint. Chairs placed around them receive warm bodies pulsing with anticipation. The TWA, Tampa Writers Critique Group, holds its session. Tonight I'm one of the four that will occupy the hot seat. Another chapter of my memoir, Beyond The Veil, is on the list to be critiqued.

       I glance around at the familiar faces, my writing friends. Entrance into their world provided me with binoculars. I see writing now as works of art...operas. And, the techniques these writers have taught me not only improve my writing, but also help me to look closer at the beauty of the art work.
      
       I hold my writing friends dear. I call them My Inkies. We're linked by ink. Each a substance with different texture and diversity. They add richness to my writer's life.
 
       These Inkies sometime give me Ouchies! That's when I hear the words of my grandmother, the old Spanish saying, "El que te quiere te hace llorar," he who loves you will make you cry. Yes, correction hurts but it helps to mold me into a better writier.

        And then...sometimes My Inkies touch me in a most memorable way. I kneel before them and bow my head to receive their invisible pen, their writing sword upon my shoulder. Those are the times when they find a zest in my writing. Those are the times when My Inkies..."knight me."

The Courage To Write

    

        These are the most precious words from a relative who read my book, Cuban-American, Dancing On The Hyphen, "It took courage to write it." That person doesn't know that about six years ago, I sat at Panera Bread reading, The Courage To Write, trying to convince myself to begin writing.

         Often when I write I go through "my willies." I envision myself at a crowded airport. I have to open my suitcase in front of many eyes... the eyes of a jury. They're going to see I'm not an expert packer. My clothes are spread everywhere,  my jeans aren't Calvin Klein but Wal-Mart's Faded Glory, and  my make up isn't Clinique but Maybelline. Fear of personal exposure. Terrified they'll see I don't own the best equipment. I hear my inner jurors' screams... guilty,guilty,guilty!
  
          It's then, I read the little card I carry with me. "Write what disturbs you, what you fear, what you have not been willing to speak about. Be willing to be split open."   From Wild Mind by
                                                                                                             Natalie Goldberg      

                                                            

Why smile?

    Today I smiled at a stranger. Risky bussiness. I so fear the being hit...splattered by a cement face. Why do it?  My husband and I volunteered for three years as telephone counselors for a suicide and crisis line. One day a caller said to me, "Today at a parking lot a man smiled at me. A stranger smiled. Because of his smile I didn't go home and shoot myself."

          Today, I smiled at a stranger in a parking lot. He smiled back.