Val Muller

The Electronic Wordsmith

Earlier this month, I got to chaperone a high school field trip to the Newseum, and the experience stayed with me. I thought I’d share some highlights.

(Because I was chaperoning a class on media ethics, I did not view the museum in order (top floor to lowest floor). Rather, I visited in order of my own preference, since I knew I wouldn’t have time to see everything.)

Overall, the museum reminded me of why I’m a writer and why I’m involved with Freedom Forge Press, an organization dedicated to sharing stories of freedom with the world. Moments in human history are easily lost and forgotten over the generations. But with the help of media and art, younger generations can be reminded of the struggles that came before and hopeful gain insight.

There are boxes of tissues available throughout the museum, and from my observations, they are well-used. Many of the exhibits are quite poignant.

First, a piece of the Berlin wall. The exhibit was set up to show the difference between freedom of expression and… its opposite. This view of the wall came from the western side of the wall. When I crossed over to see the side that faced East Berlin, there were no markings whatsoever. A complete repression of human expression.

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From the side allowing freedoms…

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This is contrasted with an exhibit about the American Revolution, the spirit of which was in stark contrast to repressive governments.

20171006_124634Indeed, the museum emphasized the importance of a free press in helping to inform the people.

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On display: a printing press. The amazing thing is, we all have printing presses in our pockets nowadays.

The museum featured important elements from stories of national interest, including an FBI exhibit and details about the Unabomber. Most of the displays, save perhaps the feature on JFK and his family, were uncomfortable–but in a thought-provoking, life-changing way.

For instance: on display was a huge antenna from atop the toppled building on 9/11. There were also several partially-destroyed electronics, wallets, and other artifacts left by the victims of the attack. The museum featured a video on 9/11, but I could not bring myself to visit (especially given that there was so much more I wanted to see). Having lived through it, the memories were still fresh. But I was heartened that most of my students chose to view the video, and they were still talking about it in school afterwards. After all, they were barely born in 2001 (some of them weren’t yet), and none remember the attack personally. The museum had already served part of its purpose in educating and inspiring another generation to realize the gravity of all that came before.

20171006_115019The exhibit I wanted to see the most was the Pulitzer Prize photography. I had expected it to be powerful, but I completely underestimated what I would encounter. The room was silent, and several people were in tears. Two pictures stood out to me especially, though there were plenty that touched me. In this famous picture by Stan Grossfeld, an Ethiopian mother holds her starving child after walking 250 miles to seek refuge. The photographer noted that he took “that picture with tears in the viewfinder…. The kid died that very day.”

20171006_134021Anotherpicture is equally tormenting. The photographer, Kevin Carter, was in Sudan, taking pictures of a girl nearly starved to death, with a vulture waiting in the background. Like the other journalists, Carter had been told not to touch any famine victims because of the fear of disease spreading. Following that warning, he watched her, took the picture, and then chased away the bird. After taking the picture, he crawled under a tree and cried. Although he won the Pulitzer, he was criticized for not helping the girl, and he said it was a regret of his. Three months after winning the award, he committed suicide.

20171006_133825This was a picture discussed in the media ethics class. What about those who argued that Carter should have helped the girl? While there is no “right answer” for what to do in such a situation, the message that came out of the visit to the Newseum was that despite the suffering of that one child, the work Carter did on that photograph helped to raise awareness of issues in Sudan—as other disturbing photographs help raise awareness about problems across the world. We are each only one person, but our voice has the power to resonate with others–dozens, hundreds, thousands of others. I still adamantly believe that honest and open communication is the best way to effect change in the world.

The Pulitzer Prize room included several celebratory photographs–such as athletes celebrating at the Olympics–as well as many even more disturbing photos. The room remained somber. After that, I stopped at the exhibit on presidential dogs since I needed something a bit happier to end my trip with.

Lincoln's dog was the first to be photographed.

Lincoln’s dog was the first to be photographed.

Perhaps my favorite exhibit was one I saw midway through my trip. There is a huge room with archives of historic newspapers, and by walking through the timeline backwards, I was able to revisit significant events of my lifetime as well as take a look at what previous generations would have seen:

20171006_12583420171006_13003220171006_130401I’ve written before about the Svalbard Global Seed Vault and the message of hope that is there, despite the grim undertone of saving seeds for use after a global disaster. To me, the archives of noteworthy newspaper headlines is similar: if we remember the past, we can celebrate our victories and see how far we’ve come, and perhaps we can learn from the mistakes of those who have come before.

The Newseum is worth a visit if you’re in the area: anything that encourages self-reflection and reflection on our place in the world can help an individual become a more thoughtful citizen. And that’s how you make the world a better place–one conscience at a time.

Welcome to the Spot Writers. Today’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, author of the Halloweenish tale The Man with the Crystal Ankh, a story of a violinist who is contacted by spirits while she plays. This month’s prompt is very Halloweenish as well: write a scary story using the words dress, light, dark, pumpkin, ghost.

Witch

by Val Muller

They call us witches. It’s because they don’t understand. They can’t conceive of something so far advanced, so beyond and above them, something their primitive science can’t explain, and so they call us magic and they call us dangerous. And me sent to search among them.

One thousand years I was granted to find you. Not long for us, but dozens of lifetimes in the place you went. And so I knew you would be hard to find because you would always be changing—and on top of that I had the entire world to search.

I knew where you’d begin. A forest in the north. Isolation. The complete opposite of home. Where else would a rebellious girl go to escape her mother? I sensed you there, but by the time I arrived, so many had been slain by invading armies that you were already gone. The inhabitants here are so brute.

I heard of a revolutionary named Hildegard of Bingen, one who had dreams and visions, who possessed an intelligence that others did not. That was you, I knew, but you passed before I could get to you. Your lives on this world are like those of an insect, and almost before I can sense you, you’re gone.

I heard rumors of someone named Joan of Arc, another revolutionary, a leader like you were destined to be.

Always there was something in my way and I was never able to get to you in time before your deaths. Travel on this world is tedious and slow. Bodies are so heavy here. All the while, my eternal light pressed against the body I borrowed, wanting to escape the dark confines of the flesh. How I longed to return to our world of light, or even to reveal my true form and become a god to the primitive beasts of this world. But I remembered the Queen and kept my promise and remained hidden in flesh.

I smelled your Essence during the cruel witch trials, where people like you were burned. People they feared. Some were of this planet—ones who could see beyond their time. Others, like you, were visitors whose incarnations here were cut short by the fearful brutes. The panic of those massacres made the moments I had to find you fly by too quickly, in too much of a blur.

I knew I would find you eventually.

I followed your Essence to the New World, where I could tell you had been a Native. You passed of old age before I could find your body, but I stayed on the land awaiting your return. When another wave of witch trials arose, I knew you had returned as well.

I sensed you leaving the grave of an infant born to the colonists, one who died moments after birth. Soon after, I heard your laugh in a child’s babbling, but there were so many lives flying about that I could not pinpoint you before your next death.

My one thousand years were drawing to a close, and I knew they would summon me back again. I could not fail. What would they say if I failed to bring the Queen’s daughter back from her escapades on Earth? Losing my job was the least of my worries. I would likely be recycled back into the ether with the hopes that I’d be reincarnated as something more useful to the Queen.

I was not ready for that.

I intensified my searches. I gave up physical comforts. I walked through green fields of summer and smelled the air for you. In crisp, cool mornings I walked through wheat fields wet with dew, and I sensed your presence close by. I tried to make note of every single second, to detect every day of yours that would pass. That level of concentration is barely sustainable, but I caught your essence. It was moving.

I followed the trail into a city. I wouldn’t think that the Queen’s rebellious daughter would want to return to so industrial a place, one so similar to what she’d fled from in her own home. It seems that the Queen’s love for cities and urban populations was part of you as well; perhaps you were showing your true nature and coming into your own. I hoped you were ready to return.

I followed you all the way to New York City. It was the month of October, which for me is the mere blink of an eye. I forced myself to concentrate on every single second so that the mere moment of the month felt a longer. As I slowed down, I realized that people were dressed differently: some wore masks, some had painted faces, many wore dresses that did not seem to fit this era—some of the dresses were reminiscent of my earlier time on this world. Something was strange and I knew you were behind it.

At first I found it hard to locate you in such a large population, but then I remembered how it was on our home, how everyone packed into a huge city has their Essence vibrating through the air the way the people here leave ghosts of themselves even after they have gone. All I needed to do was listen closely enough and I could isolate yours. And so I did, and I found you in the basement of a large building. The building rose and stretched to the stars, toward our home, but the stairways into the basement led away from it. The steps were lined with large pumpkins, each carved into a face that did not belong on this planet. Indeed, those grinning visages reminded me of home.

One of them was carved to look just like your mother.

I held my breath to listen to the night, and I learned it was you after all, throwing a Halloween party. I’d read of it in a book once, and it made sense. Halloween is the closest the people of this world have come to understanding our ways. The line that blurs life and death is so fluid, yet in their world death seems so sudden and final. They don’t understand the true nature of things, the constant renewal and rebirth. They don’t understand that their energy never truly disappears, that we are all of us made of brilliant light that shines through all our iterations.

But on Halloween they come a bit closer to this epiphany. Their tiny minds open to what they would otherwise consider witchcraft. Magic. So of course it is fitting that I would find you there.

When I enter the basement, loud music resonates, and bodies dance everywhere, writhing in pleasure and even in pain. Bodies reaching out to each other, bodies dressed in whimsy and creativity, bodies free to express themselves. I know, of course, that you are behind that, too. I know that this is your party, and so I look on stage and indeed there you are in a dress befitting the Queen’s daughter, a dress like a queen herself would wear. There you are, leading them through sound, with your Essence resonating in every pulse of the music. You sing to them of our ways and your ways. I hold my breath to hear your words, and there it is: our native tongue, chants that in other ages led to your death at the stake. You have them all in rapture now. They have accepted you.

I look over the writhing bodies, and my eyes catch yours. Instead of fleeing as you I thought you might, you keep on singing and your earthly lips break into a smile. I let myself dance, too, but only for the blink of an eye. I know after the party is over, we are going home.


 

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: https://valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Dorothy Colinco: www.dorothycolinco.com

CaraMarie Christy: https://calamariwriting.wordpress.com/

 

Inside Out & Back Again is this year’s “One Book, One Community” selection, and I picked up a copy from my local library while I was there during an author event. The timing was serendipitous: the book was on my TBR list, as I’ve heard it recommended several times (it’s a Newberry Honor Book and National Book Award winner).

The story follows a girl named Ha, who is displaced from her home during the Vietnam War. She is only ten years old, and she is forced to flee on a ship and ends up in Alabama with a family that sponsored 20171014_221838hers. After surviving a dangerous boat ride to escape her unstable country, she is faced with discrimination: most families want to sponsor smaller Vietnamese families, not large ones like hers. And when her sponsor brings the family to his home, his wife snarls, clearly uncomfortable with the situation. Add to that, Ha faces bullying from her classmates, with a reference to the famous photograph of the naked girl fleeing a napalm attack (Nick Ut) being one of the only things the students know or understand about Vietnam.

At the same time, the book shows us the emotions she faces as she holds onto her culture despite changing conditions: the motif of her papaya tree, which she had to leave behind, and her brother’s chick, which he had to leave behind, is repeated through the story—for instance, with references to dried papaya strips Ha is given as a gift and American-style fried chicken that the family is given, neither of which compares to the fresh versions of the food they left at home.

For those of you following my blog, this book is the complete opposite of the one I reviewed last week. (I still feel a bit bad about last week’s review, but I had to be honest). Inside Out & Back Again is written in free verse, and each chapter is short enough to read often in less than a minute. It can be read comfortably in 3 short sittings, though it can be tackled in one if desired. This book completely respects the reader’s time, though sometimes that left me craving a bit more detail. (In the bonus material included at the back of the book, the author provides advice about writing poetry, and that includes cutting down any unnecessary words: the syrup without the sap, in her words. She certainly follows her advice.) In some ways, each poem is much like a haiku: fast to read but best digested with slow contemplation, considering the imagery of the poem, the emotions, and how the poem relates to other poems in the tale.

Ha, the protagonist, is only ten, so the words she provides are limited in their depth, though the reader can find hidden depth between the lines, and often the gut-punch comes in what is left unsaid. The ease of reading makes this book appropriate for even elementary school readers, but the ideas interwoven within the text (and the subtext as well) make it applicable for adults as well. In her note at the end of the book, the author asks us, “How much do we know about those around us?” She tells us that much of Ha’s story is based on her own life, and she felt compelled to share her story since there are those whose relatives have endured similar hardships but who now know very little about the details—especially the emotional details—of the journey from Vietnam to elsewhere.

When we hear so much in the news about refugees, books like this are important in helping us to think about the other perspective. I can’t imagine having to uproot myself and hope that I could find a sympathetic family or acquaintance willing to help me find a new life. Yet at the same time, it’s human nature to expect people to assimilate to a certain culture. Even Ha, the spirited narrator, expresses fears that her forward-thinking ways while still at home (wanting to be the first person to touch the floor on a special holiday, for example, even though this honor was reserved for the oldest brother) may have caused her family’s misfortune. The book explores all that comes when change happens—the good, the bad, and the different. This book scratched the surface in helping the reader see what it might be like (though again, more detail would have helped just a bit). The scope of the book includes Ha’s life at home, her exodus via ship, and her new life in America. That’s a lot to pack into about 200 pages of double-spaced, short-lined poetry.

I enjoyed the details. For instance, Ha is very intelligent when she leaves Vietnam. But when she comes to Alabama, she speaks with a heavy accent and has trouble with the nuances of the English language; as a result, many think she is stupid: in one harrowing scene, the class applauds her for doing something a young child could accomplish, making her feel ridiculous. As a teacher, I cringe when I see an English language learner have to learn content and language at once, and so I feel for Ha: only time and practice can help her, and the bullying doesn’t make things any easier.

As a creative writing teacher, I will use this book to model writing concise poetry in free verse, especially poetry whose intended purpose is to evoke emotion while conveying a story. For a reluctant reader, the length is encouraging (since the pages fly by quickly), but the content is deep enough (reading between the lines) that no one should feel bored when reading, even if it is a quick read.

Even back in June, I saw people posting on social media about October 13. These fans of October, Autumn, and Halloween were excited that October this year “features” a “Friday the 13th.”

Sure, there are the realists out there who would insist that “a day is just a day,” no matter what it’s called or numbered, but to me there is something special about the fact that so many people come together to celebrate the same thing.

For October 13th–a Friday–it’s a chance for Halloween and horror fans to binge-watch films in the Friday the Thirteenth series. Or have an early Halloween party. Or simply take a walk in the autumn darkness and enjoy the ambiance. In any case, the arbitrary date is a time for celebration.

And really, this is the case with most holidays. They are each a chance for people to come together and celebrate something simultaneously. An excuse to step back from routine and appreciate–as Ray Bradbury puts it–the knowledge that we are alive.

While many holidays have become subject to commercialization, I still enjoy the unity holidays bring us. Like literature, in which characters experience things we all consider or confront at some point in our lives, these holidays remind us that we are not alone.

22884In this spirit, I wanted to reflect on the eclipse that happened on August 21, 2017. I was at work, doing teacher prep work at my school. Most teachers were locked in their classrooms all day, frantically preparing lessons and making copies for the students’ immanent arrival. I didn’t hear anyone talking about the eclipse, and I thought I might be the only one dorky enough to bring my eclipse glasses. But when I snuck out to see if the eclipse had started, I was met by the principal and secretary, sneaking back in from doing the same thing. When I went out close to the “peak” of the eclipse, I found several already gathered.

20170821_160042The science teachers provided a few quick lessons to the rest of us, and those of us with glasses loaned them to those who did not. We marveled at how the eclipse left crescent-shaped patterns in the tiny dots of sunlight created between the leaves in the trees. We looked around at how the cloudless sky seemed dimmer somehow, like someone replaced the sun with a 40-watt bulb.

At several points, teachers commented that it was probably time to get back to our classrooms. Indeed, we all had work to do, but we hesitated. There was something about that moment, about being together, that we knew would evaporate as soon as we set foot in the building and resumed “life as usual.”

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The pinhole in the middle of my fist–crescent-shaped.

We did eventually return, but my afternoon was interrupted by friends and family texting to let me know where they were and whether the viewing conditions had been favorable for eclipse viewing. We all had other things to do, but there was a shared knowledge–even if subconscious–that the togetherness of this moment transcended the daily tasks that would be forgotten in a week’s time.

It’s easy to get dragged into day-to-day details and stresses. And of course there are necessary chores we must do each day, some on which our lives and the lives of other depend. These chores will always be there waiting. They will always need to be done. But our memories are structured for serendipity. For days of coming together. For the Thanksgivings and Halloweens, the fireworks and the chocolate hearts. Even the lesser known celebrations, like an office having a bake-off for National Chocolate Chip Cookie Day or the people sharing pet photos for National Dog Day. In any case, look for the serendipities of the world and embrace them. They are the fabric from which memories are woven.

Call me a nerd, but I always enjoyed the feelings associated with “Back to School.” Don’t get me wrong; summer is my favorite season, and I love the freedom of endless days, but there was always something thrilling about fresh pens and pencils, fresh notebooks, and endless books to read. The fall leaves in the air and the dwindling daylight are all reminders to me of the comforts of curling up and reading.

I especially enjoy the month of October. It seems everyone is looking for spooky reads to celebrate Halloween. Prestwick House, a publisher whose mailing list I am apparently subscribed to, sent out a recent blog post entitled “Top Literary Horror Titles.” Among them are Dracula, MacBeth, and Coraline. I’ll admit that these works were all important inspirations to me in fueling the darker side of my works. From Dracula, I take the symbolism of decadence and morality linked to vampires, which bleeds into our modern horror films. What I love about MacBeth is its ambiguity. Did the title character doom himself, or were the witches actually an external force intent upon sending him to his destruction. Like Oedipus (a play that did not make Prestwick’s list), the reader is left to wonder whether we bring our own destruction? In some ways, humans being responsible for their own downfall is far more frightening than the most powerful monster. And what I’ll always remember about Coraline is the possibility that we have doppelgangers out there. Have you ever sat down with someone and wondered if they were truly themselves? Have you ever wondered if you were truly yourself? Something that mixes the very familiar and the very foreign seems startling.

CORGICAPERS2_mediumI decided to search to see what other “literary horror” lists are out there. I came upon The Literary’s Hub’s “10 Works of Literary Horror You Should Read.” I have read many fewer of these titles, and I look forward to doing so, especially Victor LaValle’s novel The Changeling. (I was glad to see that Morrison’s Beloved made this list: it’s definitely as literary as it is haunting.) I was intrigued by another work I haven’t read, Mark Z. Danielewski’s House of Leaves. According to Literary Hub, the novel makes the reader feel claustrophobic along with the characters inside the house. I look forward to experiencing that, and the literary craft that makes it possible.

And of course, I wanted to end by mentioning my spooky works. The Halloween volume of my Corgi Capers series follows fifth grader Adam as he works to determine whether his neighbor is a witch. This is inspired by my thoughts as a kid, when I was terrified of my very kind neighbor because I seriously imagined her casting spells and separating me from my parents. The attempted kidnapping in the novel was also inspired by my real-life experiences!

Faulkner's ApprenticeMy adult horror novel Faulkner’s Apprentice was based on a dream I had in which a “bad man” forced his way into a house I inhabited. Despite pressing all my body weight against the front door, he forced his way in, and I felt truly powerless. It was that feeling of powerlessness that inspired the novel. Lorelei finds herself fighting to keep control of her life. The novel explores a similar question to that posed in MacBeth and Oedipus Rex. Do we have control of our own fates, or are there forces working against us?

My newest “spooky tale” is called The Man with the Crystal Ankh. It’s about a high school student who finds herself being followed by an unseen presence. She is a violinist, and when she enters the trance-like state of a musician completely captivated by her music, she is able to see and communicate with that which follows her. To be honest, this was inspired by my love of the violin and a rather scarring violin lesson in which my instructor’s dry and cracked hand literally left a drop of blood on the neck of my violin. I couldn’t shake that image and wondered if my instrument was someone imbued with a sense of “blood power.” The idea emerged as a novel in which I also add a bit of colonial history–a bit of that witchcraft hysteria and obsession with “the invisible world.”

Icrystal-ankh-200x300 love promoting books, so if you have a spooky read to recommend, please leave a comment, including the title of the book and why you enjoyed it. I also love to help other authors promote their works. If you have a story (spooky or otherwise) you’d like to share, perhaps you’d like to be featured in my Writer Wednesday post. Send me an email!

Happy Haunting, and Happy Reading!

Where to start…

I had to read this book for a young adult book club/professional development group I’m in: the purpose of the book club is to assess novels for possible use in classrooms. I would not have chosen to read this novel on my own (I had heard of it and read some preview pages and decided it wasn’t for me), and I certainly would never have finished it if I didn’t have to.

That said, I am torn. The novel has brilliant moments of literary merit. As a teacher, I could certainly choose passages to show my students in order to analyze character, writing style, and even writing technique. But as a reader, this book wanted me to work too hard in an attempt to appreciate something that I honestly felt was soulless.

Marra’s work takes us to war-torn Chechnya and follows several characters over the course of a decade. To add a plot to an otherwise plotless tale, the author compresses the timeline to span only a number of days, with the rest of the story being told in flashbacks. As a reader, we are asked to juggle several characters and several years: this is a lot of mental work to demand. As I read, I kept thinking that if I wanted to put this much effort into reading a novel, I would have chosen to read one of the classics I have not yet read.

The author used the time hopping to add a bit of omniscience to the tale, even despite being limited to various points of view. For instance, and I hyperbolize only a bit, he would provide us with a scene, and then he would write something like and then she wiped her nose and stuffed the tissue into the cushion of a couch, where it would remain forgotten until thirty years later, when its crusted remains would be found by her grandson, who would put it on display in his office and compose a poem about the horrors of war for which he was paid a three-hundred dollar honorarium, which he would use to dedicate a bench at the local library to the beloved grandmother he had never met. Once in a while this is fine, but to me the problem is, the whole work felt like it was without a soul.

When I read Nathaniel Hawthorne, I feel the utter torment of his thoughts bubbling through the work. When I read Steinbeck, I feel that he was truly there with the Joads traveling to California and starving for food. In Tess of the D’Urbervilles, I can feel Hardy reeling against the double standards of his time. When I read Constellation, I felt that the author was trying too hard to be literary without any genuine soul behind it. I felt he was writing the novel for self-glorification rather than a sense of caring about the people he was writing about. For me, that made the story seem flat and contrived, even despite its moments of literary brilliance.

When I first started reading, I thought maybe my initial assessment had been wrong. I am fascinated with freedom as a theme, and when an eight-year-old witnesses her father being taken away by militants, I thought perhaps this would be a novel similar to 1984, one that spoke against corrupt governments. And there are moments throughout the novel in which this theme emerges and people are put to ultimate tests to determine whether wartime allows us to stand by principles or whether there are merely situations where we react to pick the lesser evil of two seemingly unprincipled options. Indeed, several characters are left to make one of two terrible choices: it’s easy to criticize them without understanding their situations, and as the story unfolds, we learn about their tormented pasts and understand their motivations–and even sympathize with them.

Then some chapters follow one character closely, so I thought maybe the book is a human interest one, allowing us to see a war-torn country through a human perspective. But there was too much head-hopping and time-hopping to allow me to truly relate to a character and truly care about any of them. Just when I start caring, we’re in a different decade or a different perspective. Why would one do that to a reader, especially a modern reader with so many other choices out there? I was never once a captive reader, and I was always conscious of the pages creeping by. Every spread felt like an eternity—and I am a fast reader.

If you are going to tackle this book, go in with an outline of characters and timelines. There are moments you will enjoy, but it’s a lot of work—and with so many other great books out there, why would you put yourself through this? I realize there are plenty of people who love this book, so I don’t want to deter you if you think you might enjoy it. It simply wasn’t for me.

This summer, I taught an online class about the archetypal journey and personality archetypes and how they can be used to help make narrative writing stronger.

In doing so, I found dozens of online “quizzes” to help users get to know themselves better. While there are many, some are decidedly more reliable than others, and I want to share two of those today.

I was reading an article about how people from the Middle Ages would dislike certain elements of our modern society, mainly our reliance on technology to help us remember things and how we share miniscule details of our lives to keep the sense of being always connected.

The article made me reflect on my own behaviors. At the tail end of “Generation X,” I was born without technology, compounded by the fact that my parents were slightly technology-resistant. Yes, I had a record player. Yes, I used a rotary phone. And I do think there are differences between how I act and think now versus how I acted and thought when I was younger. Some of that is age, of course, and different responsibilities. But much of that is the sense of “over-connectedness” I have now. It’s hard to slow down and be bored nowadays.

And boredom is a good thing because it can lead to inquiry and insight, rather than careless distraction.

Whereas in the past, I would stare at a wall and find faces and patterns in the tiny imperfections caused by the paint roller, now when I’m bored I surf Facebook or Twitter. Although social media opens me up to new ideas and opinions, it limits my reliance on my own imagination.

In that sense, I am always on the lookout for ways of using (the inevitable presence of) technology to help me (and my daughter, when she’s older) keep that sense of self reflection and imagination I once had. To that end, some of these quizzes actually do help us slow down and reflect.

The first quiz is based on the Meyers-Briggs personality indicators. Although it’s not an official test, it is accurate to the test I took in college, and it’s one of the more flexible tests I’ve taken in terms of it allowing variation in responses. When you finish the quiz, it provides some discussion about your personality type.

Screenshot_2017-06-27-05-29-05-1The second is a quiz created to be a valid way for users to determine which Harry Potter house they would belong to if they were a wizard in the Harry Potter universe.

(To be fair, I will share my result for this one: I’m actually a Slytherin. I attribute it to my extreme work ethic and my analytical nature).

Both should be taken as “fun,” but the knowledge that comes from each test may help us slow down and reflect.

By reading up on the tendencies associated with our personalities, we are forced to self-reflect and consider ways that our preconceptions and preferences might influence our understanding and our interactions with others. When every member of a family takes the quizzes, they can discuss results and contemplate how their differences might influence interactions, and perhaps this would allow misunderstandings to be explained—and even allow people to adjust their behavior when interacting with others.

Do you have ways of using technology to slow down and reflect? If so, I’d love to hear them—feel free to leave a comment!

Otherwise, happy reflection, and happy Friday!

This month’s theme is “monster,” to be interpreted any way. This week’s story comes from Dorothy Colinco.

Consumed

by Dorothy Colinco

He had plucked a woman from her tribe, reaching back into time and space to place her here and now, wherever that was. Wherever this sterile room with the chrome table and white walls was. The organization’s work required some unpleasantness, which was not made easier by the fact that the subjects were unsuspecting of the inevitable and irreversible damage. Of course, the damage was never physical. They were not so cruel as to inflict physical pain. But the pain was real nonetheless, and sacrifices had to be made for the advancement of the greater good.

The woman was now seated awkwardly on the chair. He felt stupid for making her sit there; of course she didn’t know how to sit in a chair. Had he expected her to lean back with her feet flat against the floor, arms crossed in front of her chest? He should’ve known she would sit – more accurately, squat – with her feet on the seat of the chair and her bottom hanging between her heels, knees up to her armpits as though she were squatting over a makeshift toilet in the ground.

He was able to communicate with her in the language and gestures she used with her tribe. She, of course, was a gatherer, her fingers stained the color of wild berries and covered with tough skin that long ago resisted the lacerations of the thorns.

“Are you scared?” He asked. She only looked at him, but in her eyes he saw that universal expression of understanding. She had understood him, and she was scared, but she was not about to admit it to this hunter, though his garments, she noticed, were not stained with the blood and fat of prey. Her son of only 50 moons had surely hunted more prey than him.

“Don’t be,” he said, and he was not unkind, which surprised her.

“I only mean to show you something. To ask questions. I won’t harm you.” Still she remained silent. He gestured, and food was brought into her room by two other women. They didn’t speak to or look at her. “Eat,” he urged. She could not resist the smells emanating from the pile before her, and she ate, gingerly at first, and eventually without restraint. She had none.

“How many are in your tribe?” He began with the questions. She saw no harm in answering him. He did not seem to want to harm her or her people. If he was planning an attack, they would be ready. Or long gone.

“We are 50 in number. Strong enough to keep other tribes away. Small enough to feed each other.”

“How many other tribes are there?”

She bit into something she was sure was venison, but it was more flavorful than any venison the hunters ever brought back. She chewed while she thought about his question.

“We know there are four other tribes. But we have heard tales of even more. Perhaps there are 10, but that is only legend. We have seen only four.”

She saw a look pass over his face. It was the look of a hunter who was about to kill a small, defenseless rabbit. There was no viciousness in that look. Only pity, and that was even more confusing.

He asked more questions, questions about their rituals. About losses they have suffered. About violence within their tribe and with others. She has endured three great losses in her life – her mother’s son when he fell off a cliff during a hunt, an elder when he grew ill and never awoke, and her own child, her second, only 12 moons, not even old enough to name.

He asked how big the other tribes were. How far they traveled. He asked her to paint the world on the wall using her fingers and paste from the brightest berries. She drew their pack, then the trails she remembered, then the locations where they met other tribes or found evidence they left behind. On the wall, her tribe was the size of her palm, and the world she could cover with her torso.

Again, that look from the hunter.

Next, he showed her a painting of an orb, the color of deep water and grass mixed with swirls of a rabbit’s fur. “Do you know what this is?”

Her silence answered for her.

He knew what the protocol asked him to do. To delay it would only be cruel. So he began.

He told her she was wrong. That there were more tribes than she thought.

“So the legends are true? There are 10?” When he was silent, she pressed, “15? 30? How many?” She wanted to know. His silence meant he thought the numbers low, but she could not begin to comprehend 10 tribes the size of hers. Where were they all? Who were they all? What were their names?

He told her. Painstakingly, he told her of the numbers. And then he told her worst parts. What they had done to each other. What happens to the equivalent of 10 of her tribes every day. That there are children without tribes. That there are children with tribes who still let them starve. That in some very large tribes, some dine on what the hunter brings and some dine not at all. That just recently, one hunter hurt a group bigger than her tribe, killed them, and still no one knows why.

They do not deal in physical pain. But that does not stop the subjects from weeping and crying out. From clutching their stomachs with revulsion.

Finally, he hands her the monster. It fits in her palm and it glows brightly. Here she finally sees the other tribes. Here, she sees the suffering over and over, in its myriad forms, and she cannot comprehend it. She was not made to. And still she clutches the monster because she cannot look away. She cannot unknow the truths and untruths she now possesses. Like so many before her, she is consumed.

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: https://valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Dorothy Colinco: www.dorothycolinco.com

CaraMarie Christy: https://calamariwriting.wordpress.com/

 

I read this book as part of my young adult professional development reading group. The book follows a 17-year old girl named Charlie who has been through more in her young life than most of us experience in all of ours. She has been homeless, had a rough family life, battled an unstable and abusive mother, and been forced to live with a man who turned out to be part of a sex ring. To gain some sense of control over her life, she turns to cutting—literally slicing her skin.

Examining the book for classroom use: there are profanities. A lot of profanities. While the language keeps the book “real,” it might be a concern for some teachers or school districts. The content is also a bit rough. While there is no explicit description of sex or drug use, both are certainly mentioned more than once. As I was reading, I thought that teachers might benefit from reading this book, since many students do come from disrupted lives. Hearing Charlie’s voice as she recounts her tale makes it difficult to fault a student for not doing their homework. As teachers, we are never aware of all the demons students are battling, but this novel helped open my eyes to some very grim possibilities.

The novel was a fast read, but the first-person narration made it feel just a bit long for me, since the reader is there learning and growing along with Charlie. In the first section of the novel, she is in an institution and known as “Silent Sue” because she refuses to / cannot speak as a result of the trauma she has experienced. I was strongly reminded of the movie Girl, Interrupted. While it was interesting, I felt claustrophobic as I experienced all that Charlie did—and I believe this was the author’s intent, to really throw us into her perspective. I couldn’t wait for her to get out.

When she did, she traveled from her frigid home to Arizona to live with a friend, since her mother couldn’t handle her (not much is said about her mother, but it’s clear she’s battling her own demons). Most of the story follows her struggles to find herself and her life, despite her past and old tendencies. For instance, she carries her tender kit with her, which includes all the implements she used to cut herself: while she’s making her best effort to stop cutting, she needs to know it’s there and an option. She also has extreme self-esteem issues, causing her to wear long sleeves in the oppressive heat and remain relatively quiet, causing her to be ostracized. Still, she finds her niche in the music scene and eventually befriends her coworkers.

I thought things were picking up for Charlie, but it seems that vicious cycles are a cliché for a reason. Disappointed that her friend is getting married, Charlie becomes attracted to a bad boy who takes her down the wrong path. I enjoyed the author’s talent at putting us in Charlie’s perspective as we understand exactly why she does what she does. In her note to the reader, Glasgow hints at her own experiences in self-mutilation (cutting) and expressed her desire to write this novel as a way of sharing that struggle. She certainly succeeded. I watched as Charlie sabotaged her chances at being an artist and at having a stable life by making decisions based on a past that was in no way her fault nor within her control.

I found the ending satisfying. It was neither a depressing ending nor a Hollywood happy ending, but a glimpse of hope for any young reader in this situation. Despite the “school inappropriate” content, I can think of many students I’ve had over the years—and even peers I attended high school with—who could have benefitted from reading the book to realize they are not alone in their suffering and their struggle.

For those who never found themselves in a situation like Charlie’s, the book could be an eye-opener. What struck me was the impact that “helpers” had on Charlie. From time to time, characters would take small steps to help her, from offering her some food to offering her the chance to sit in on an art class, or even buying her clothes or helping her move into a one-room apartment, every little thing meant something to her. When we constantly hear negative stories in the news, it’s easy to fall into the beliefs that our kind actions don’t matter; but as the book demonstrates, kindness spreads easily and is necessary to help everyone reach their full potential.

Other books reviewed in this YA book club:

Book Review: 13 Little Blue Envelopes by Maureen Johnson

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s theme is “monster,” to be interpreted in any way. Today’s post comes from Cathy MacKenzie, who is hard at work finishing her first (and only) novel, WOLVES DON’T KNOCK. The following is an unedited excerpt from Chapter 3 of the book.

WOLVES DON’T KNOCK: Expected publication date: November 1, 2017.

***

Miranda carefully shut the door behind her. She must not disturb Paul.

Despite wanting to flee far away from the cabin as quickly as possible, she paused to inhale great gulps of crisp woodland smells. The fresh scent of pinecones brought forth memories of Christmas. She exhaled, watching her breath spiral like smoke from a chimney and then vanish.

The wood pile, overflowing with logs for the stove, looked smaller surrounded by clusters of snow that remained after the milder temperature the previous day. Trees around the property, taller and thinner, appeared eerie in the dim light. Paul’s battered pickup truck sat by the cabin. Why hadn’t she snatched the keys?

Paul allowed her outdoors every few days, when he freed her from the chains, but she knew better than do anything foolish. She couldn’t jeopardize the little freedom he gave her. She relished those times—and others in the cabin—when she felt free, for her captivity could have been much worse.

Had it been that long since she had been outdoors, or had the chill changed the surroundings? Everything once green looked dried-up dead. Most of the snow had melted or Paul would be able to track her footprints.

The moon hovered, illuminating her path to freedom—if she could find the path.

The shed! She must investigate the shed.

Owooooo!

She froze. Had he woken? Was he after her? The wolf? More than one?

The shed forgotten, she raced through the woods until she couldn’t run any longer. Gasping, she leaned against a tree in a vain attempt to fade into the blackness and ignore sets of eyes that watched from behind every object.

Shivering, she jerked the threadbare sweater around her chest, her hands resting across her stomach. Her baby. Kevin would be—what? Five? Six? Seven? She shook her head. She could ponder later.

Where was the road?

She glanced around. Too many paths. Which way? And where would they lead?

She shuddered and swiped her hand under her runny nose. She didn’t know the time when she escaped, but it had been closer to morning than midnight. How long had she been outside? Three hours? Four? Frostbite worried her. The night had grown colder. The nubby wool sweater with its overstretched sleeves hanging below her hands didn’t afford much protection, but she had seized the chance when it arrived, not wasting time searching for proper clothing. Thankfully, despite wearing sneakers, her feet were dry. Nothing was more uncomfortable than wet feet. Not that comfort concerned her. She was elated to be out. To be free.

Ahhh wooo!

She jumped at the sudden sound. An animal? Wolves?

Not Paul. Paul the animal would have pounced long ago.

The cold, dank night seemed never ending. Eyes tailed her, glowing in the dark. Lights, white and yellow.

Inch by inch, the moon disappeared, allowing the sun to rise. Cousins trading places. Light overtaking dark. Monsters soon to be revealed for what they were.

Tree limbs lay on the crusty snow. A miracle she hadn’t tripped over them. She discovered a strength she thought lost and sprinted from one tree to the next like a rabid rabbit running from a wicked wolf. She would run for a few minutes, take shelter behind a tree, peer around to ensure the coast was clear, and flee to another tree.

Eventually, she would reach a road and find people. She had to believe that; she had believed that for the previous few hours.

While she mumbled prayers, Paul’s words rattled in her mind. “I’m Paul Wolf. That’s all you need to know.” She would never forget those first words out of his mouth and ones that followed about death to loved ones if she tried to escape. She hadn’t wanted to endure more death. The death of her father had been horrid enough, but selfishly she was relieved he was gone—if one believed, to a better place—because he would be ashamed of her.

Paul had moulded her the way he wanted, but she kept enough of herself intact. She endured pain at his hands but learned to co-exist, and thoughts of escape faded while endless days merged into endless weeks and weeks into nameless months. How long had it been? How many years?

When she had been home, before being taken, the odd news reports broadcasted abductions, and rarely had results been good. Paul ensured she had food and allowed her input into the grocery list. At the beginning, he regularly forced himself on her but those incidents gradually lessened. The more he ignored her, the nuttier and crazier he became. Had she turned into a nutcase as well?

Days had been so foggy she wondered if she would ever see clearly. And nights were worse when wolves surrounded her, chased her, howled. Ahhhh woooooooo!

She patted her pocket, which gave her comfort. The photograph she kept hidden. Paul had never found it.

When she glimpsed a road between the trees, she stopped to catch her breath. At the sound of a vehicle, she slipped behind a pockmarked pine and watched the car zoom by. Her stomach sunk.

No, all was okay. She would wait for the next car. The sun had fully risen, and she would see a vehicle in the distance and discern if it was Paul. If not, she would chance that, if he followed, he would be on foot, but she prayed he remained passed out on the floor. Time was running out. The cold would kill her if he didn’t. She must flag down the next vehicle. If he wasn’t already after her, he would soon be waking, and she had to be far away before then.

Minutes passed. Or was it hours? Snowflakes swirled. She stopped, sticking out her tongue to catch them. She hadn’t realized how dry her mouth was.

A vehicle! She dashed into the road, flailing her arms like a crazy person. The driver might run her down, thinking she was a crazed individual, or the driver could be Paul. Either way, she would be dead, but she had to chance it.

***

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: https://valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Dorothy Colinco. http://www.dorothycolinco.com

CaraMarie Christy: https://calamariwriting.wordpress.com/