Musings by Shirley Wetzel

Shirley Wetzel began writing poems and stories as soon as she could hold a pencil. She has had a number of historical articles and personal essays published in academic journals, newspapers, and anthologies, including a story in A Cup of Comfort for Weddings. Three of her short stories, Feels Like Home, Meeting Miss Bettie, and Sarah Hornsby’s Dream, have been published in anthologies written by her writing group, The Final Twist, published by L&L Dreamspell.

MUSINGS
by Shirley Wetzel

 

 

 

My musings today come from that treasure house of wisdom, Facebook.

            “A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies

             The man who never reads lives only one.”

                      George R.R. Martin

            “Reading gives us a place to go when we stay where we are.”

                        Penguin Books

Books have given me the chance to live many lives, and to go to places I’ve never been. I started reading before I got to kindergarten, and I discovered Nancy Drew not long after. To heck with Dick and Jane, I wanted to ride around in a jaunty roadster and solve crimes with my peeps Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden. I got to try out the medical profession with Cherry Ames, R.N., and decided that was not for me. When I was around ten I discovered Agatha Christie, and I never looked back. Dame Agatha led me to Dorothy L. Sayers and the other greats of the Golden Age, and turned me into an Anglophile.

Fast forward a few decades. While I was in graduate school studying archaeology, Elizabeth Peters began her Amelia Peabody series. It was great fun to read about the fictional versions of the archaeological greats of the Victorian and Edwardian Ages while studying them for real in class. Ms. Peters, aka Barbara Mertz, is an Egyptologist with impeccable credentials, and knows how to make dusty old history come alive. I can’t go on digs any more, but Mary Anna Evans lets me tag along with Faye Longchamp on her explorations. The wonderful Lyn Hamilton, who became a friend before her untimely passing, took me to foreign climes like Easter Island, Africa, Mexico, the Orkney Islands, and Thailand. In a delightful bit of serendipity, her book The Thai Amulet made use of The Royal Chronicles of Ayudhaya, which had been translated by one of my professors and typed by – me!

Speaking of Thailand, it is one place I have been. Thanks to Uncle Sam, I lived in Bangkok from 1972-1974, and it was a magical time. These days I can walk those exotic streets again with Tim Hallinan’s Poke Rafferty. If I want walk on the gritty side, I turn to John Burdett. If I want to have a lot of clever fun with my mysteries, there is Colin Cotterill’s new series featuring sassy reporter Jimm Juree and her eccentric family, trying to run a motel in a small village in southern Thailand. Eric Stone has taken me to Cambodia, Hong Kong, and other Asian places, tackling some of the major problems of the day.

Reading has turned me into a time traveler, with no help from Doctor Who. Mary Reed and Eric Mayer gave me John the Eunuch, who solves crimes in ancient Constantinople. Steven Saylor’s Gordianus the Finder opened up the world of the Roman Empire. In another instance of serendipity, Steven’s grandfather and my grandmother were cousins, and I was able to thank Steven for his grandfather’s kind act of giving my widowed grandmother a job at his hotel in Goldwaithe, Texas. Who knew being a mystery fan would lead me to such amazing places?

Barbara Hamilton writes a series featuring Abigail Adams as an amateur sleuth in Boston when it was on the brink of revolution.  Rhys Bowen won my heart with her Constable Evan Evans series, set in modern day Wales, and she continues to entertain me with her Lady Georgina (34^th in line to the throne) Royal Spyness series and her Molly Murphy series, set in turn of the century New York City. The late David Thompson introduced me to James Benn’s Billy Boyle World War II mysteries because he knew I was enthralled with that era, and I am so thankful he did. I recently discovered a new writer, Graeme Kent, whose two novels, Devil-Devil and One Blood, are set in post-WWII Solomon Islands. One can’t get much more exotic than that.

In more recent history, Colin Cotterill’s Dr. Siri takes me back to Southeast Asia just after the Vietnam War. Dr. Siri is a seventy-something Laotian physician forced into becoming the national coroner because there was nobody else to take the job. I must admit this is my favorite series. The characters are –well, real characters, and I and many other fans have come to love them. Dr. Siri and his best friend Civilai remind me of the grumpy old men in the balcony of the Muppet show, but there is much more to them than grumpiness. The crimes are often dark, but the prose is gentle and funny, making the harsh realities of the aftermath of the war easier to take. Sharon Wildwind’s Vietnam veteran series brings back memories of a pivotal time in my personal history. Julia Spencer-Fleming’s Rev. Claire Fergusson/Russ Van Alstyne mysteries are the first I’ve read that address the aftermath of serving in the latest wars.

There are so many other authors who have enriched my life. Jeff Cohen and Chris Grabenstein have given me a new appreciation for New Jersey. Bill Crider and Joe Lansdale know how to write Texan, in very different ways. Other favorites: Dean James, Charlene Harris, Cornelia Read, Leann Sweeney, Gillian Roberts, Carolyn Hart, Patricia Stoltey, Kerry Greenwood, Lee Child, Alafair Burke, Lillian Stewart Carl, Susan McBride, Rick Riordan, Betty Webb, Simon Wood, Pauline Baird Jones, all the talented authors at Berkley PrimeCrime … there are many, many more, but I’m sure I’m running out of space. A year or so from now, I will be adding the gracious and generous Kaye Wilkinson Barley to the list. I look forward to that day. Thank you all for allowing me to live so many lives, travel through time and space, and be richly entertained while never leaving my house.

Random Thoughts on the Writing Life by Shirley Wetzel

 

Shirley Wetzel is a librarian at Rice University, an archaeologist, a fifth-generation Texan, a reader, a fan, a reviewer, and a writer. She started her first novel back in the Paleolithic, and one day she will finish it. In the meantime, she's counting the months until retirement, when she can do even more reading, writing, and reviewing.

Random Thoughts on the Writing Life

by Shirley Wetzel

It is almost time for my yearly entry in dear Kaye's magnificent blog, and my head feels completely empty. Life has been interfering with writing, and even thoughts of writing, but I can't let my buddy down. What to do?

At first I decided to turn to my trusty file of inspirational quotes. Here are a couple of my favorites, and they are meant to encourage me to say "to heck with writer's block, just sit in the damn chair, put fingers to keyboard, and let the words write themselves down." They usually do. But there is one stumbling block, one thing I cannot seem to finish -- can't even get started on finishing. My first book just refuses to cooperate. I know I must, or my life won't feel complete.  Listen to these folks, they know what I mean:

"Twenty years from now, you will be more disappointed by the things you did not do than the things you did. So, throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover."

- Mark Twain, writer/humorist

"There are people who put their dreams in a little box and say, "Yes, I've got dreams, of course, I've got dreams." Then they put the box away and bring it out once in a while to look in it, and yep, they're still there. These are great dreams, but they never even get out of the box. It takes an uncommon amount of guts to put your dreams on the line, to hold them up, and say, "How good or how bad am I?" That's where courage comes in."

- Erma Bombeck, humorist

Then I decided to ignore that stack of pages and files containing various forms of the Book and go read DorothyL.  There I found a much happier subject to write about: the fun parts of the writing life. The inspiration came from Jeffrey Cohen's blog for June 26-27. To quote this comedy genius (hi Jeff!):

"Here's the theory: Authors aren't like other people. In order to test said theory, we need to see ourselves from another perspective."

To test his theory, he interviewed his wife, who must be a saint with a great sense of humor. I realized he is correct.  Writers, even those who haven't finished their first novel, are different than other people.

And in the fifteen years or so since I got the courage to put a few of my dreams on the line, and become part of the writing world, I've come to appreciate and love that difference.  Whether I ever finish that first novel or not, my life has been enriched by taking that leap. Some things I've written did get published, and that was a thrill, but the best part of leaping into the strange and wondrous world of writer has been the writers I've come to know and the experiences we've shared.

As well as I can remember, Jeff Cohen was the first "real" author I reached out to, and I've never regretted it. I'd started doing reviews for overmydeadbody.com, and one of the first books I received was "For Whom the Minivan Rolls." The protagonist (I got to learn lots of cool new words, too) has a son with Asperger's Syndrome. My beautiful granddaughter had just been diagnosed with autism, and I was searching for answers, and comfort. I got both from Jeff. He literally wrote the book on how to parent a child with autism, and through the years he's been there whenever I needed him to be. It was a thrill for both of us (it was, wasn't it, Jeff?) when we finally met in person at Houston's fabulous Murder by the Book. It was his first, and probably last, visit to Texas, but as we say down here, I was mighty proud to make your acquaintance, Mr. Cohen.

I didn't mean to go on so long about Mr. Cohen, but you never forget your first.

Author, that is. Eons ago, when I was looking for something else in the Rice University library stacks, I came across a mystery called "The Texas Capitol Murders," by a guy named Bill Crider. I liked it pretty well. At some point I met Bill, who writes the kind of books I aspire to write: small town Texas, where, aside from the occasional murder, the biggest crimes involve wild hogs and cranky alligators. Bill and his lovely wife Judy have become dear friends.  He always reads my wip and always has only good things to say, even when I tell him to be brutally honest. Bill couldn't be brutal, though, even if he was surrounded by a mob of wild hogs and feisty gators and love-struck romance writers.

Another topic on DorothyL that got my attention was how authors interact with their fans. I've met a good many mystery writers over the years, and each and every one has been gracious and kind. My one true love, Lee Child, is a case in point. At his signing for "Hard Luck and Trouble," he held a drawing for five sheriff's badges. I didn't win one, but the guy next to me did. I offered to buy it from him for five bucks, and he taunted me, saying it would be up on e-Bay that night and I could bid on it. He was in front of me in the signing line, and I told on him. When it was my turn, Lee stealthily reached (yes, reached, like Reacher) into a bag beside me and slipped a badge into my hand. Now THAT'S class!

There have been some happy surprises. Mary Reed wrote to overmydeadbody.com asking if she could quote my review of one of the John the Eunuch books, and I was so proud that somebody was reading my reviews and even liked what I had to say. Another time, I opened an ARC of one of Gillian Robert's Amanda Pepper mysteries, glanced at the acknowledgments, and saw MY NAME. Looked again, and it was still there. In a previous review, I'd said something about a wedding that gave her an idea for a plot. I miss Amanda, Judy, and I know a lot of others do too. The day Jeff Cohen came to the MBDB signing, one of the staff commented on a blurb on the back cover. It was by ME!

I'm going on too long, but so many memories are surfacing. I've come to know so many other writers whose work I enjoyed. "Cousin" Lillian Stewart Carl (my mother was a Stewart, so we've adopted each other as cousins whether we are or not), also writes the kind of books I aspire to write. The hilarious Cornelia Read, who, like me, is a fan of Arlo Guthrie and Pete Seeger, also shares my sense of humor and evil.  She posted a photo on FaceBook of three young cigar- smoking friends she'd met on an Alaskan cruise, and described how beautiful the scenery was. I commented that it was the perfect setting for a murder, and she wrote right back that they'd just been discussing that very thing. That's another thing about writers: we're always on the lookout for a good place to kill somebody. When writers get together, at lunch or while hiking around Machu Picchu, their topic of conversation garners some strange looks from people nearby. I love it!

Susan McBride, you are fabulous, gal, and I still have a galley of one of your first Debutante books. I expect it'll be worth big bucks pretty soon. Earl Darlin' Staggs, you give the best hugs ever!

James Benn, or as I call him now, Jim, your first Billy Boyle mystery came out when I was immersed in all things WWII, and it is my favorite series ever.

Stuart Neville, James Benn, Peter Lovesey at Murder by the Book

Chris Grabenstein, I often ask myself WWCD? Well, maybe not often, but I plan to buy the t-shirt.

Rhys Bowen, I shared with you the story of how my mother's first husband died in that war when his B-26 crashed into a mountain in Wales, and you said there's a book in that story, and I will write it. Jacqueline Winspear, when I told you how kind the English were to my half-sister, whose father is buried in the Cambridge American Cemetery, you shared a story about the GIs who gave your mother chocolates and silk stockings when they learned it was her birthday. Tim Hallinan, sawadee khah, my friend, I have enjoyed talking to you about Thailand, where I spent two memorable years during the Vietnam War. Your Poke Rafferty series is also my favorite- a tie with Jim. And with Lillian's Jean and Alistair series, and Rhy's Evan Evans and Lady Georgie ... not to forget Jeff's Haunted Guesthouse series. Dang it, I love all of them the best! And Dean James, I am so proud of how well your new series is doing, it's about time your talent got proper recognition! I could go on, and on, but I'm supposed to be working.

Being a member of this very special bunch means there are some sad times too.  Barbara Burnett Smith, another talented Texas writer whose books I loved, died trying to save a dog who'd wandered into traffic. Lynn Hamilton and I became friends via e-mail. She wrote a book based on an unpublished manuscript from a Thai kingdom, a manuscript I typed for the professor who translated it when I was in graduate school. Way cool! She came to Houston and I gave her my copy of "Motel of the Mysteries" -- a classic for archaeologists and mystery fans. A few years later she wrote and said she loved it, but wanted me to have it, and she sent it back. A few weeks later I learned of her death. I still get chills remembering that. Even though she was so ill, she took the time to think of others.

On that note, I'll wrap this up. There are many other names of writers, readers, reviewers, and other assorted members of the writing world who are special to me. You know who you are. And in case you think I forgot, dear Kaye Barley, you are at the top of my list. Thank you for hosting your blog and letting us muse and meander to our hearts' content. You are one classy lady!

When a Writer Can't Write by Shirley Wetzel

I was born in Comanche, Texas, but I soon got bored and hopped a train bound for Key West three weeks later, accompanied by my mother and big sister. My dad was in the Navy, and we bounced around the country, finally settling back in Texas.

I started writing as soon as my fingers could hold a pencil, and have never stopped. Most of what I wrote was for my own amusement, but a few years ago I decided to get serious and started submitting personal essays, historical stories, and such to magazines, newspapers and anthologies. To my amazement, I sold most of them. My first love, though, is mystery. Last fall my first mystery short story was included in A DEATH IN TEXAS, published by L&L Dreamspell. I love to travel, and have seen a lot of the world, including Thailand, where I lived for two years, Guatemala, where I worked on a Highland Maya archaeological excavation, Turkey, Peru, and various parts of Mexico. My current work in progress is a mystery titled A Death in Comanche, and it's been in progress a loooong time. I write book reviews for overmydeadbody.com, and sometimes for Mysterious Morgue. My blog address is http://swetzel.wordpress.com


When a Writer Can't Write
By Shirley Wetzel


Back in 1996, when I first began to attempt to become a published writer, I started a mystery called A Crime in Comanche. I was going to call it Comanche Moon, but some other Texas author bet me to it, and even though titles can't be copyrighted, I figured it was best not to compete with Larry McMurtry. I started out like gangbusters, sitting down at work (sorry, boss) every morning, putting my fingers on the keys, and letting them fly. I used some of my colleagues to base my characters on, with permission (mostly), and they waited eagerly every day to see what new delight had poured out of my brain. I quickly discovered a problem. While the beginning wrote itself in the proper place – at the beginning of the book – other chapters showed up out of order. After several months, I had a beginning, an ending, and a bunch of chapters that went somewhere in between. The book came to a screeching halt. I just couldn't figure out how to pull it all together, so I put the pages away and worked on other things.

I took writing classes, read, read, and read some more, all kinds of books, dissecting each one to figure out what to do and what not to do. I read books by my favorite authors, mainly authors who wrote the kind of books I wanted to write. I devoured books on writing and tried to learn from them how to get my act together. When I felt bad about my lack of stick-to-itness, I found solace in learning I wasn't alone.

Mark Twain, one of my heroes, had this to say:

"As long as a book would write itself, I was a faithful and interested amanuensis and my industry did not flag; but the minute the book tried to shift to my head the labor of contriving its situations, inventing its adventures, and conducting its conversations I put it away and dropped it out of min mind. The reason was very simple … my tank had run dry; the story … could not be wrought out of nothing."

Mark understood! It wasn't my fault, it was the book's fault! I found another quote to support my theory, from Howard Waldrop:

"When I was a young guy just starting out, I'd find I couldn't finish a story. Then I figured out the story wasn't ready, so I waited until it was ready and then I wrote it." 

I recently found a small journal with this quote on the front page:

"My muse is like the Texas weather—long spells of drought and despair followed by days of wild, uncontrollable outpourings from the skies." - Shirley H. Wetzel, 24 June, 1996

That's just how it had to be for me, it was obvious. I wrote several essays and articles just that way, and they got published. When my novel decided to finish telling itself, it would do so. Right? No, of course not. My writer friends told me the first thing to do was "put butt in chair." Sit there and write, whether I felt inspired or not. Get something on the page, anything, bad or good, just keep going until you work through the block. I do try, but as Farley Mowat, whose work I do not know, said:

"...[I]f someone tells you writing is easy he is either lying or I hate him."

I acquired some discipline, overcame my inherent laziness, and wrote. I participated in my writing group, got inspired, wrote two short stories for anthologies, a family history, a historical article. Then life smacked me right in the face. My father died, my mother is not doing well, and I have a health problem that is chronic, progressive, incurable … life sucked big time in the past year, and the future is uncertain. So what do I do? I write. Not short stories, not my long-overdue mystery, but blog posts about how life can really suck, because that's where my head is now. When I sat down to write this post for dear Kaye Barley, I didn't know what I was going to say, maybe something about writer's block. I just sat in the chair and put my fingers on the keys, and I don't know if it's good or bad, but it's something.

In searching through my quotes file for inspiration, I found the perfect ending for my story. It applies equally to writing and to life.

"I wanted a perfect ending. Now I've learned, the hard way, that some poems don't rhyme, and some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle, and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what's going to happen next. Delicious ambiguity." -Gilda Radner -actress and comedian (1946-1989)

Maybe my novel will decide it's ready to be finished, or maybe I'll write another one about something completely different. Or maybe I'll decide to give up fiction writing and do what I do best, essays and historical articles and family histories. I might give it all up for now and go take care of my mother. I might join a clinical trial and help medical science find a cure for what ails me. I don't know what will happen next, but whatever it is, while it's happening or when it's done, I'll write about it. I am a writer, and that's what writers do.

The Kindest Cut by Shirley Wetzel

I was born in Comanche, Texas, but I soon got bored and hopped a train bound for Key West three weeks later, accompanied by my mother and big sister. My dad was in the Navy, and we bounced around the country, finally settling back in Texas.

I started writing as soon as my fingers could hold a pencil, and have never stopped. Most of what I wrote was for my own amusement, but a few years ago I decided to get serious and started submitting personal essays, historical stories, and such to magazines, newspapers and anthologies. To my amazement, I sold most of them. My first love, though, is mystery. Last fall my first mystery short story was included in A DEATH IN TEXAS, published by L&L Dreamspell. I love to travel, and have seen a lot of the world, including Thailand, where I lived for two years, Guatemala, where I worked on a Highland Maya archaeological excavation, Turkey, Peru, and various parts of Mexico. My current work in progress is a mystery titled A Death in Comanche, and it's been in progress a loooong time. I write book reviews for overmydeadbody.com, and sometimes for Mysterious Morgue. My blog address is http://swetzel.wordpress.com


The Kindest Cut by Shirley Wetzel

I always wanted to be a writer, someday. All through my school days, college years, and working life I wrote essays, poems, and stories, then filed them away, waiting for the day when I really became a writer. I won contests, impressed the kinfolks with my recording of family stories, and amused my friends and co-workers by writing short stories, usually mysteries, using them as characters. Decades went by, and still I was not a writer, according to my personal definition. I took writing classes, thinking this would finally qualify me to be a "real" writer. I studied writing markets, read numerous "how to be a writer" books, and read voraciously, especially the books of successful writers that I admired. What I did not do was submit anything. It was just too frightening to send my darlings off into the cruel world, where surely they would be summarily rejected and I would be exposed as a no-talent hack. No, someday I would be ready to join the fray and take my chances – just not yet.

There was one market I wanted to break into over all others. Back in the day when newspapers were still worth reading, the Houston Chronicle had a Sunday magazine that featured personal essays pertaining in some way to Texas. I read each essay carefully, even typed them out to get the rhythm of the pieces I liked, and thought "I can do this!" I wrote my own essays, then put them in a drawer. Not yet …

Finally my fiftieth birthday loomed on the horizon and I realized, ready or not, it was time to fish or cut bait, do or die, publish or perish – just do it.

And I did. I pulled out my favorite piece, the story about my aunt and uncle, a love story with tragedy and triumph that illustrated the strength of the human spirit and the power of love. I polished it until it gleamed, put it in an envelope, said a few prayers and incantations, and sent it on its way. A few weeks later my stamped, self-addressed envelope showed up in the mailbox. It was too thick to contain only an acceptance letter. With trembling hands, I opened it, trying to steel myself for my first rejection. At least I'd tried!

I pulled out the manuscript, looking in vain for the form letter I knew must be there. Had it been so awful the editor didn't even bother to do that much? Then I looked at the first page and saw hand-written notes in the margin. The editor, Ken Hammond, had obviously taken the time to read every word. It was a rejection, for sure, but by the time I finished reading his encouraging, helpful and kind comments I felt anything but rejected. He said that the story was heartfelt, beautifully written, but just not quite what he was looking for. Best of all, he encouraged me to try again, and enclosed the writers' guidelines. He didn't say "who do you think you're trying to fool," or "don't bother me with this tripe again," or any of the other awful things I had feared. He thought I was a writer. And just like that, I knew I was one, and I began acting like one.

I took that essay and shortened it and re-worked it, submitting it to a column in the newspaper called Among Friends. A couple of weeks later I was checking my e-mail, browsing through countless spam and boring work memos, when I came across one from the Chronicle. The editor liked my story, and because my uncle was a World War II veteran and that was part of my essay, she wanted to run it in the Memorial Day issue.

As soon as the essay was published, I started getting calls from friends and neighbors and every relative in the area telling me how much they liked the piece. I even got a few calls from total strangers complimenting my story – I had FANS! This author business was heady stuff. I started submitting more of those pieces that had been gathering dust in the bottom drawer, and writing new ones. Some were accepted, some were not, but it was all grist for the mill.

That was several years ago. I still drag my feet, still fear rejection, but I no longer doubt that I AM a writer. There was one big disappointment, however.

I kept submitting essays to State Lines, and Mr. Hammond kept turning them down, always gently and with encouragement to try, try again. Finally the day came when he said "this is it, I like this one, if you can just tweak it a bit I want to print it." I think he was just as happy as I was that I was finally achieving my dearest goal. It wasn't even one of my more heartfelt family tales, but the story of a girl, a gun, and a squirrel named Squeaky. Mr. Hammond said he didn't usually print stories about animals, but there was something about this one … A few weeks later, I got a letter from him. I tore it open, expecting it to be the final acceptance of the story. My heart sank when I read his words. The Chronicle was "undergoing changes" and the Texas Magazine was no more. He apologized for not being able to print my story, thanked me for my submissions, and wished me well in my writing.

I was disappointed, but did not give up. I wished that I could thank Mr. Hammond for his gentle and positive rejections, and one day I got that chance.

It turned out that he lives near one of the members of my writers' group. I told her my story, and she brought him to the launch of our anthology, A Death in Texas, which contains my first published mystery short story. I gave him a copy of my essay.

A few weeks later, he sent me an e-mail:

Dear Shirley,

What a personal and emotion-touching essay you wrote with "The Kindest Cut." As I read it, I found myself hoping that essay would be printed in State Lines, even though I knew it would not be. That's a tribute to your skill and honesty.

As for your kind words about my rejections, thanks you. …You are a writer, indeed …

Ken Hammond

Shirley Wetzel's Version of William Carlos Williams' "This is just to say"

I was born in Comanche, Texas, but I soon got bored and hopped a train bound for Key West three weeks later, accompanied by my mother and big sister. My dad was in the Navy, and we bounced around the country, finally settling back in Texas. I started writing as soon as my fingers could hold a pencil, and have never stopped. Most of what I wrote was for my own amusement, but a few years ago I decided to get serious and started submitting personal essays, historical stories, and such to magazines, newspapers and anthologies. To my amazement, I sold most of them. My first love, though, is mystery. Last fall my first mystery short story was included in A Death in Texas, published by L&L Dreamspell. I love to travel, and have seen a lot of the world,
including Thailand, where I lived for two years, Guatemala, where I worked on a Highland Maya archaeological excavation, Turkey, Peru, and various parts of Mexico. My current work in progress is a mystery titled A Death in Comanche, and it's been in progress a loooong time. I write book reviews for overmydeadbody.com, and sometimes for Mysterious Morgue. My blog address is http://swetzel.wordpress.com


Our darling Kaye has politely asked me to talk a little about a writing/yoga retreat I attended a couple of weeks ago. You can quit twisting my arm now, Kaye :-) The retreat was in Belton, Texas, run by a wonderful lady named Patricia Lee Lewis, who conducts similar retreats all over the world.

Here’s the link to Patricia’s website: http://www.writingretreats.org/About/

If you click on her Wales retreat, you'll see St. Davids Cathedral - for those of you who know me, you'll know the importance of that. In the far right corner of the photo you can see Carn Llidi Mountain, where my mother's first husband lost his life in a plane crash in 1943. Patricia and I discovered we had many other things in common.

But that's not what Kaye asked me to talk about. One of the exercises Patricia assigned us was to use the model of the poem by William Carlos Williams, which will be familiar to many of you - Bill Crider said he used it to torture generations of his students. It's the kind of note you'd paste on the refrigerator ....


This is just to say

That I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
so cold
William Carlos Williams

And here's my version - it's totally fiction, I have no idea where it came from, I just put my pen to paper and it wrote itself down. That's my story and I'm stickin' to it!:

This is just to say

That while you were away
I slept with the pool boy
in our marriage bed

I know this may upset you
but he was so sweet
so delicious
so HOT

Forgive me, or don't
I don't give a rat's ass
Ever since I saw you
screwing the maid
in the pool house
Shirley Wetzel May 29, 2009

You can have a lot of fun with this! There's even a wikipedia entry for it
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/This_Is_Just_To_Say

I've written several more since the retreat, about people I work with, for example, and some of my friends have even commissioned me to write some for their particular situation, but it's more fun to write your own. Try it, you'll like it!