Today, I'm talking to Danielle Lazarin about how to get your short story published by a literary magazine, how to know when your story is finished, and how to write stories no one else can write.
Danielle has a forthcoming story in Glimmer Train, and has published in Michigan Quarterly Review, The Boston Review, and on FiveChapters.com. She received her Masters in creative writing at University of Michigan. She knows her stuff.
You can check out Danielle's website and follow her on Twitter (@d_lazarin).
Let's jump into the interview!
Danielle, you've written for some of the most competitive literary magazines around. How long had you been writing before you had one accepted?
I began submitting stories to literary magazines in college; my first story was accepted by Michigan Quarterly Review shortly after I finished my MFA in 2007. Time wise, that’s well over a decade. But of course the quality of the stories I wrote in high school and college are vastly different than what I was working on in graduate school and am now.
How many short stories did you write before you were able to get that first one published?
That kind of counting doesn’t end well, in my experience. Let’s just say enough to know that that particular story was ready to be out in the world in ways that most of the others were not.
Do you know why that first story was chosen and not all the others?
I think the other stories I had sent out were simply not ready, for various reasons. Oftentimes when I got rejections they were unsurprising; I felt not sadness but relief, because I knew in the back of my head that there was still more work to be done on the story, and now I could do it.
I’m still working on being patient with myself and my work. The plan is to build a career, to write till I can’t type, or mind-meld, or however we’ll be using technology to tell stories in fifty years. I want every published story to be one I can stand behind for a long time. Some of those stories I sent too soon have since been published, but after much revision. Some are still in revision.
Generally, though, it’s really hard to say why one story is published after many rejections or never at all or quickly, why some stories win contests or don’t. I always try to remember that a reader is subjective. Pick up any story collection or literary magazine and it’s clear that the world is full of stories with engaging character and strong arcs and beautiful prose. But that doesn’t mean that each of those stories are amazing in my eyes; it might not get me as a reader.
When it comes down to it, for publishing purposes, you are speaking to a small group of readers, and your story just might not connect with them. Before that, of course, you have to be sure that you have done all that other work, that you have satisfied all your criteria for characters and arc and sentences.
What do you enjoy about writing stories? What do you hate about writing them?
I love living inside the suspended disbelief of stories, of the act of writing when you feel like you are reporting rather than inventing, when the stories you are telling feel so true to you you forget that you are indeed making them up.
I love when I am out in the world living my life, on the way to the playground with my girls or catching a bus, and something comes to me in a flash—a detail about a character, or a plot point, and that rush to write it down, that hunger to sit down with the newfound knowledge and see where it takes me, how those little details open up portals.
Having those tidbits stored up is exciting. I ride on that excitement, as the time I have to write is not as much as I’d like it to be, as I’m home with my kids, who are not in school full-time yet.
I hate the feeling of missing puzzle pieces. Of having a story be almost there, and knowing there is something wrong with it, but being unsure what it is, or even if I know what the problem is, not knowing how to fix it.
I’ve had a number of stories where this is true, and I tried various revisions, but they weren’t working, and I felt as though I was spinning in circles. I put both of those stories away for some time, till I felt I had shaken their familiarity out of me.
Then I went back when I started thinking about them again. One of them was published by Five Chapters and the other won the Glimmer Train contest.
What are three things a writer can do to write publishable short stories?
1. Find a few good readers.
By a good reader, I don’t mean someone who loves your work unconditionally. I mean someone who adores your work as a whole, but who is also serving its greater purpose, who is not afraid to give you criticism and from whom you can hear and use that feedback. It can take a while to find that reader. I have a few friends from graduate school and college whose feedback is invaluable to my stories.
2. Hone your own editor.
This perhaps contradicts number one, but you also have to gain a sense of what you want out of your stories.
Sometimes the most useful feedback I’ve received from other writers or teachers has been things I’ve disagreed with, someone telling me that an element doesn’t work at all, and my knowing that that non-working component is vital to the story I’m trying to tell. And then I have a burning desire to make that line or sentiment or secondary character work, to make that reader understand how vital it is.
Often in workshops people tell you to cut what isn’t working, but I think first you have to check and see if you want it to work. It’s a different way of listening to feedback, of understanding your goals for your story.
3. Write a story that no one else can write.
I spoke of this some in my essay for Glimmer Train: I believe you have to claim your territory through specific details, through a sense of ownership of a kind of character or experience. You do this by tapping into your own history, the places and characters you know most intimately.
I took a workshop with Julie Orringer some years ago and she asked us to write from an area of our own expertise—to draw on a narrow experience, such as being a competitive piano player, or the daughter of a mother in a wheelchair, or spending summers in a particular town or house.
When I teach, I use a variation of that exercise, and it always generates the most vivid, confident stories, far more interesting than students trying to think of a wacky or surreal set of circumstances in an effort to stand out. Those stories often read as inauthentic because it’s so outside their experience that they look in at their characters rather than see from inside of them.
If you feel connected to your work, if a character reminds you of a place or person you are connected to emotionally, that will come through and give you a sense of stake in your stories.
What's your favorite story you've written?
The one I’m working on now, if, of course, I’m not struggling tremendously with it that day. I feel very connected to each of my stories, or I wouldn’t spend so much time with them. But once they are done, I move along to the next character or idea. They’re like students, really. I want to see them do well in the world, but if I spend too much time admiring them and looking after them after they’re gone I can’t move on to what’s next; I can’t fall in love with some other story enough to write it all the way through.
I am not a fast writer; many of my stories take years from draft to final version, as I find I need to put them down for a bit when I get stuck and focus on a different story. I move forward bit by bit on a number of things at one time, and I need the promise of something new just ahead or I just stay stuck.
Right now I’m working on a novel, which is a different kind of beast, but it has a multi-character point of view, and so that keeps it fresh; if one character is giving me problems, I just ditch them and hang out with someone else for a while.
And yes, I do think of it as hanging out with my imaginary friends.
Thanks Danielle! Writers, don't forget to check out Danielle's website and follow her on Twitter to get updates about her latest stories.
If you want to learn more about how to write a publishable short story, check out Let's Write a Short Story, an ebook about the art and science of writing and publishing short stories.
PRACTICE
I love the idea of “drawing on narrow experience” that Danielle mentioned. You have experiences that make your life unique, whether it's your childhood memories, your work experience, your travels, or your relationships.
Write about your narrow experience. Be as specific as you can.
Write for fifteen minutes. When you're finished, post your practice in the comments section.
And if you post, please be sure to comment on a few posts by other writers.
Happy writing!
Thanks for such a great focus idea! I took my narrow experience and ran with it. I didn’t quite end up with a story, but I did write this blog post on being a pastor’s kid (PK). I would love some feedback on my writing, so please click below and let me know what you think!
http://thesjs.com/10-ways-to-tell-if-youre-a-pastors-kid/
Thanks,
Rebekah SJ
Ha ha ha! This is good! I think my favorite was #9, because even though I’m not a PK, I find myself doing that a lot. 🙂 Anyway, I really enjoyed it.
Your PK post was a great mixture of laugh out loud funny and exactly how it is.
I sent the link to my PK friend, and we both laughed!! Well done!
Thanks for the feedback! I really appreciate it. =)
Rebekah, you made me laugh. It was a clever bit of writing and there must be somewhere it can be published so that more people can access it. As my sister says, “the only thing that you can make me do without my wanting to, is make me laugh”, and you did that – it’s a gift.
Thanks, Clairelily! As a result of your comment combined with looking around this blog, I have decided to pursue publishing more thoroughly (aka actually TRY it instead of just daydreaming about it). Thanks so much for your encouragement! =)
This is based on my experience in cross-country, back on Labor Day.
Despite going at a decent pace, the rest of the group became further and further from me. I had long passed the “I-can’t-go-on” feeling that would pop
Switching computers to deal with a broken key.
I liked the image “I felt like an exhaust grate”. it was so vivid.
This is from one of my times traveling on The World Race this last year.
The train rushed on
through the dark Eastern European night. My head out the window uncomfortably
watching the landscape go by. I grew homesick as I stood there, head still out
the window. I thought to myself “this could easily be central Illinois or Indiana,
definitely not Wisconsin or Michigan”, but it reminded me of the two states
that I did a lot of growing in.
I had been away from home for over seven
months. I had missed Thanksgiving, Christmas and this month would mark a missed
Easter as well. The snow was melting away, only small patches of it reflected
the moonlight. I heaved a deep sigh. Home. It was something that I had longed
for, for a long time.
I had sought it out in places and in people
but they had always come up short. Three years in Indiana trying to make it my
home, trying to fit where I clearly didn’t. I was raised in Illinois, so I knew
that I didn’t fit there. But there on that train chugging through Serbia,
something fit.
It wasn’t
me in that place. What finally fit? The fact that I’m not meant to fit, fit.
Jesus didn’t fit, neither did any of His disciples by the time He returned. So
why should I fit? I fit in this time, because He placed me here. I don’t fit in
this place, because He lives in me. Finally, I felt at home, I smiled and
closed my eyes against the cold night air. Home is inside me, in my heart .
This is from one of my experiences on The World Race.
The train rushed on through the dark Eastern European night. My head out the window uncomfortably watching the landscape go by. I grew homesick as I stood there, head still out the window. I thought to myself, “This could easily be central Illinois or Indiana, definitely not Wisconsin or Michigan, but it could be home.” It did remind me of the two states that I did a lot of growing in.
I had been away from home for over seven months. I had missed Thanksgiving, Christmas, and this month would mark a missed Easter as well. The snow was melting away, only small patches of it reflected the moonlight. I heaved a deep sigh. Home. It was something that I had longed for, for a long time.
I had sought it out in places and in people but they had always come up short. Three years in Indiana trying to make it home, trying to fit where I clearly didn’t. I was raised in Illinois so I knew that I didn’t fit there. There, on that train chugging through Serbia, something fit.
It wasn’t me in that place that fit. What finally fit? The fact that I’m not mean to fit, fit. Jesus didn’t fit. Neither did any of His disciples by the time He returned. So why should I fit? I fit in this time, because He placed me in it. I am where I am because that’s where He wants me to show Him. I don’t fit though, and that’s because He lives in me. Finally, I felt at home, I smiled and closed my eyes against the cold night air. Home is inside me, in my heart.
You have raised a lot of relevant questions in your writing. I think this past century will be noted in history as a time of huge shifts in populations, and you have been part of it.
I loved the part on the train, your head sticking out the window. Great image! You should take out the adverb in that paragraph, though. “Uncomfortably.” It weakens it. But the scene itself, and the longing, is so good, Ann.
Thanks for practicing!
If only I can look into a mirror and see beyond my own reflection. It would be nice to escape and enter another dimension. Perhaps the world will disappear if I stand there long enough. Maybe the shouting will fade if I concentrate. Mirror, Mirror on the wall… who’s the fairest of them all. Imprisoned by lies. Daydreams of pleasant tomorrows. Blasting music drowning the sounds. Darkness envelops me. Only a dim light remains. I sense a presence. Should I be afraid? He’s watching me behind the curtain of time. My heart beats a little faster, pitter patter, pitter patter… it’s raining outside. Maybe one day I’ll get to see a rainbow.
…………sounds like the opening of a darn good book!
I’m trying to be a writer, just a tinsy bit, perhaps I will graduate to the big leagues when I’m 80. Thanks so much John, I appreciate your encouragement.
Some true intensity in your writing. I reads a bit like poetry.
You do leave me wanting for some specifics as to where you are and who is that shadow casting his own shadow on you?
Could you fill me on what incident in your life this is describing? I am curious..
Thank you!
Hi there. Thanks for commenting. I am actually a novice writer testing the water and experimenting. I was reliving a memory and in retrospect perhaps I should have just wrote this in my journal instead of here. Please do not take this the wrong way but I really do not feel comfortable conveying anymore than I did. But thank you for your kind comment.
Pilar, perfectly fine.
I think the writer decides which doors they let others in through, and there is no right or wrong. Did not mean to inappropriately pry into the specifics. Hope you keep writing. 🙂
Thank you for not taking it the wrong way Wendy, I really appreciate your understanding. Thank you for your encouragement. as well. To be honest, I’ve been on the fence about writing. I have been coming on here to test the waters so to speak. So again, thank you. 🙂
Pilar, this is strong and disturbing writing. It could be the beginning of a book or left as an independent piece.
Thank you for reading and commenting. I appreciate it. I wish I know how to write a book, for some reason it seems like a big mountain.
I can feel some “aura” in every words, like I don’t want it stop and makes me want to keep reading. I agree this is a good opening for a book.
Thank you for reading it, Joy, and for your kind words too. 🙂
I loved this article especially the portion about feeling where you have a story, but there is that one piece that you cannot figure out, that one piece that despite the rest of the story feeling complete, is not. It’s comforting to know others experience this too. Haha
Also, thanks for the writing exercise.
We loved to throw rocks. Anything was a target when we were seven. Stop signs, trees, rocks. It was all there for us.
Our eyes learned to find those perfect rocks. Those rocks with that perfect set of ridges and dimples that felt right in your hand. That cold, bumpy friction against the inside of your palm that made you wonder if for all those millions of years, the rock had been forming just for you. Just for that one throw. Just for that one rush of absolute righteousness when your rock plunked against that target.
We had a park in our neighborhood. The open field, basketball courts, and playground hid what the park was really about. It was the skin that masked its essence. It made the forest behind our secret, our sanctuary. Among oak trees and blackberry bushes, squirrels and blue jays, small creeks and dirt paths (each trampled upon just as much as the other), we were alone and wild with something as old as the rocks we’d find.
There was that day I’d found that rock. The rock was not unlike other rocks I’d found before but it felt at home in my palm. Unlike my pens, video-game controllers, bike handles, the rock felt different. It felt right. The size of an acorn and lighter than a baseball, I knew as a I was walking through the creek that this gray missile of mine would hit any target.
So, when that duck emerged from behind those blackberry bushes, I saw it as any stop sign, tree, or rock. But it moved. It was a target, but different, something new and strange that held variables that the immobile did not. And so when I raised my arm (I could have been throwing a spear), and snapped my torso and my arm crossed across my body, my lungs, my heart, the duck’s squawk surprised me. I saw the rock bounce off of its right wing. Its feathers shuttered, pulsed, jolted and all excitement was gone.
It ran away, leaving me alone in the creek with the water trying to push me downstream. I was motionless. I could still hear the squawk. It ringed in my head like a hymn. I could still see the feathers contracting in pain. Never had another target ran away after I’d hit it. Never had the plunk of the rock been followed by a squawk. Never had I felt like my target had thrown its own rock at me and hit me straight in the stomach, leaving me dry and tight inside and wishing I’d never found that perfect rock.
Oh my gosh that’s good, Adam! The 100% boy fun of expert rock-throwing including the choosing of your missiles; and then the totally unexpected empathy for the live target! Great writing.
Mind if I borrow that rock? 🙂 Where do you think you left it again? I might need to go looking for it.
I liked that it was nearly equal parts inner and outer description. Funny how what feels perfect in the hand, can feel very less than perfect once your hand makes use of it.
Great job.
Like John said, that just gave me insight into a boys world, but I however, have had no idea what they thought – until this. Wow, excellent read. ‘We were alone and wild with something as old as the rocks we’d find.’ – my fav line.
Adam this is powerful writing. I enjoyed reading it. I remember the first time I was in the American bush and saw squirrels and blue jays – your description brought back that memory. This is a whole piece, a vivid memoir.
Two terraced sets of ten strings; the stage lights give the strings an unearthly silver-blue hue. Eight pedals on the floor, three for the chromatic E9th, five for the C6th. I’ve come a ways since that first little eight-string, improvised out of a standard guitar. It’s the annual Texas Steel Guitar Convention, and I’ve been invited to play this year! I’ll not let myself think about the fact that Emmons is here, Lloyd Green is here, guys I’ve admired for years — these two songs, for these few minutes, are mine.
I explain the chords to “Darlin’ Nellie Grey” to the bass player, who remains dubious, never having played the song before; it doesn’t seem to help when I tell him it’s like “Faded Love”, only different! “It’ll be fine, you’ll see,” and I turn back to the strings, intoning, “One…two…three…” and oh GOSH a thrill up the spine when the bass, drums and rhythm guitar join me on the third note. This one’s on the E9th, the “Nashville Sound” tuning, which I took to like a duck to water from the first. I play a verse and a chorus and then the fiddle player takes a verse, and plays the loveliest solo which draws applause before he is done. Man, this is GREAT! I come back in on the chorus and put a Jimmy Day ending on it, and the crowd is well pleased; warm applause rolls up to us.
Now for “night Life” on the C6th, which speaks a whole ‘nother language; Emmons played the steel on the original Ray Price recording of this song; I kinda hope he’s not here yet! but here goes, that full “sixth” sound, with plenty of major sevenths and ninths with flatted fifths, which sounds scary but isn’t; only in the last couple of years have I learned the names of some of these chords, out of necessity when playing with other musicians. When I was teaching myself, I would just play a passage over and over and over again ’til I found the chord that sounded right, and who cared what they called it. The intro is like a scatter of raindrops on a windowpane, the chord progression giving the lie to the old saw about country music consisting of only three chords.
When you feel it in you, and then play it, it’s a whole world unto itself.
‘The intro is like a scatter of raindrops on a windowpane’ – beautiful… (it’s raining here too, so it’s even more vivid!!)
Your writing is breathless and musical and immediate. Congratulations.
Thank you so much, I really enjoyed remembering and writing about this experience from 1990; hard to imagine that was 22 years ago.
When I go to bed at night, fear finds me before sleep.
My husband, superstar… shooting star… Ironman rock star, catapulted my family and me from the “Hey Y’all” lifestyle of suburban Atlanta into the “Hey Yous” climate of NJ. I’d been unsure about this move because I have a history as a Jersey Girl. I was eight when I moved to New Jersey the first time, based on my own father’s transfer. Even then, it always felt like I was a visitor who just happened to stay for ten more years through some kind of freak accident of fate.
So after high school graduation, I plummeted southward to Virginia for college, and said “Hell, with the parachute”. Crash landing is just what I need.
After getting engaged to someone (my husband) who was what I called at the time “geographically-desirable” I danced further toward Dixie, landing in Georgia. I learned that “mash the button” meant “push the button” and “Hey” meant “Hi”, and that I was meant to be there.
Until, the CEO asked a third time for John to come up and run the New Jersey division. It was a great opportunity, and how could I be the southern belle that tolled career suicide by not supporting him. So instead, I made the best of it, or at least tried to overcome my fears of the worst of it, and so I dug up my fake southern roots that I had let sink into Georgia soil for sixteen years, and replanted them in my oft-denied Yankee heritage of New Jersey.
He was making bank, no question. Nice house, good school, a wardrobe update. Maybe the concern about the return to land of side ponytails and reality-tv ridicule was all in my head. Maybe it was no accident that the local accent pronounced the state “Joy-see”.
Then, disaster struck like a multi-car pile-up on the Jersey Turnpike. Two months after moving into our house, my dream house where I had finally found just the right color of yellow for the kitchen, John told me they were replacing him. The promise of prosperity: fuhgettaboutit.
I tell people the severance package was generous. But it’s kind of like telling someone you are happy for the life insurance when someone you love dies. You would trade back instantly. But there is no going back, just the effort to make steps forward in a scary and uncomfortable and decidedly northern “new normal.”
So I’ve made friends with Ambien, and together we kick fear out of bed. Until tomorrow.
Welcome Wendy! – I recognise you from digest!! 🙂 Great piece, with so many good lines – my favourite being the shortest – ‘the promise of prosperity: fuhgettaboutit.’ I’ve lived in Georgia and NY, and the lingo took me right back – I never quite got used to ‘mashing’ though!! You definitely took us on the rollercoaster ride with you you.
Thanks, are you zozo? Wondered if I should switch up the log-in name between writing websites, but guess ease won out.
Are you posting to this?
Not sure if I am going to do the WD prompt this week. Math code…eek!
Yes that’s me! Discus uses f/book to log in, so I recently changed names here too!! 😉 And heck no, I’m DEFINITELY not doing the prompt this week – just the word math made me feel quite sick… 😉
Well done Wendy. There must be so many people out there who could identify with this piece of strong writing. A great mix of emotions that brought the reader right into the story.
I appreciated the tips you shared with us, Danielle. I’ve recently been attempting to implement all three of them. I’ve struggled more with the first one than with the other two. Finding a couple of good readers isn’t an easy task!
***
Sometimes she still comes to me in a dream, in the dead of night, my old friend. Her calico face and tickly whiskers pressed close for a kitty cat kiss. I can smell her sweet breath warm on my cheek. In the morning her purring has evaporated like the darkness that masked her arrival.
It’s been that way for years. In the midst of straining times, or joyful, she’s been there in the night to comfort me. Sweet Phern. She comforted me when I was a child and lonely. Her chortling call drifting through the house when she’d lost sight of me. “I’m here Phern,” I would call out. In moments she would spring to the bed beside me chuckling and purring.
She saw me off to college and then married. I left her behind. She was patient and understood I told myself. The month after I was married Mama called to tell me the news. Phern was paralyzed. Nothing could be done for her. She was in pain. It was time to say goodbye. I cried for days, my best friend was gone and I wasn’t there with her. An era had passed. My childhood was over and her work was done; she had raised me well.
The week I became a mother she came to congratulate me. I remember awaking disoriented, from the dream or night time feedings I don’t recall. Phern had come to see my baby. She had always babied me more than I had babied her. I wonder if I had wanted her approval.
There have been other visits. Upcoming move, job stress, another new baby, and Phern has been there when I lay down my head. Her beautiful long, patched coat and soft green eyes just as sweet as before.
this is a beautiful story Beck and one that I think many people would be able to relate to. I loved the image “Her chortling call drifting through the house…”
Hey, Beck, I had similar experiences with my beloved childhood cat, Sheba!
I hoot outside the gate of the Hope Centre in the soft rain as my wipers shove the rain off the windscreen. The automatic gate rattles into life.
In the kitchen Ma Lillian’s welcomes me with a hug. The soft folds of her body are warm, comforting.
Plastic plates stacked with peanut butter sandwiches overcrowd the counter, waiting. Steam rises from a huge pot on the stove, filled with milky tea. Breakfast’s soon.
I walk into their room and Siyanda grins his hello at me. His holed T-shirt says, ‘Binge drinking is sad, so just don’t stop.’
A cue is unflinching as its owner leans over the pool table. Boys huddle around a mini-soccer game, spinning their plastic men wildly to stop a goal.
‘Circle up, circle up,’ Jabu – the program director – shouts. The boys enter the circle with varying levels of enthusiasm. When finally the slinkers have been coerced and they repeat the phrase, we are a unit, and we are ready.
They are silent as we invite God to play too.
I break the silence with a shout – ‘Bang bang bang!’ both hands hit the air.
Bang bang bang, they reply, a sea of hands beating the air.
Whistle, creep, penguin crawl. What other stupid move can I make, I think, karate-punching the air. Bing bing bong, ca-pow, chee chee I shout- and as long as I believe it, they do too.
And we are all alive together. The adult in me is gone – I’m a girl and I can play. They’re not street-kids anymore: they aren’t mocked behind cupped hands, giddy with the smoothing amnesia of glue – they’re just somewhere between boys and men, forgetting themselves, remembering themselves.
Apologies – should have edited more. Too eager! 🙂
Well done Zoe, very strong images and a nice complete story
Knife in the Genes by Charmaine T. Davis
For awhile, it looked like I was going to escape the family-killing gene, but I’d
be lying if I said I had. I began my first week of summer vacation involved in
murder. Sad to say, even ten year old girls can kill.
Bored, with the sun beating down on our necks, my brother, two sisters and I wandered around the yard trying to find some cool shade and something to get into. We Douglases got bored easily. Living in the country on a farm made it worse. We had to stay busy or we’d get into trouble. My daddy used to say it was all in
the jeans. Then he’d slap his denim-covered thigh and laugh like it was the
funniest thing in the world.
It didn’t take long for trouble to find us. On that fateful summer day as we rounded
the corner of the house, we all saw it at the same time.
Lying on the picnic table and covered with fat, buzzing flies was my daddy’s fishing
knife. We all made a grab for it. Just as my first sister’s hand closed around it,
I bumped her out of the way. “It’s mine. I saw it first.” Flies landed on my hand
but I shooed them away.
Brandishing the knife like it was He-Man’s sword, I felt grown-up and powerful. My brother and sisters sighed in awe. Sunlight glinted off the blade. “I need somethin to stick this in.” My gaze fell on them.
They stepped back.
###
this is great and made me laugh. Perfect timing.
Thanks!
My mother was very musical.
Everyone in her family was musical.
Her mother was a pianist. Her
father played the violin, or fiddle as he called it. He was not a native English speaker and in
those days, in rural Australia, to play a fiddle was more acceptable than to
play a violin. He had perfect
pitch. That is, he could listen to a
tune, a song, a group of sounds and replicate them perfectly and instantly. I thought this was par for the course for
musical people when I was four years old.
It was not until much later at a Catholic school in the city, when I saw
my friends labouring over piano and violin practice that I realized he was
different. He was different in many
ways, all of them good and I have fond memories of him and his brothers and their
exuberant love of life and pride in bringing up their families in
Australia. It was a positive influence
and now I’m grateful to them for that.
On Saturday nights at my grandparents place, in the
sprawling veranda-enclosed high timber farmhouse we would sit or stand around
the piano and sing. My grandmother, once
a concert pianist, played rousing Irish ditties and Australian folk songs and the
children and their mothers chorused along while the men sat on the veranda
talking about whatever men talked about in those days – probably politics about
which they disagreed fiercely. My father
once went along to a political rally specifically to embarrass my grandfather
when the then Prime Minister of Australia had come to town as part of an electioneering
campaign. Dad shouted insults at Menzies
and encouraged his left wing ex-digger mates to do the same. My grandparents were silent and unwelcoming
to my father for many years after that.
Dad’s difference from my mother’s family was not only
political. It was also musical. My father was tone deaf. He could not sing a note or recognize a tune if
it personally introduced itself. I took
after my father in this respect. I tried
to compensate by learning the entire collection of Henry Lawson’s poems and all
of Banjo Patterson’s verse as well as a book of Australian poetry that my
mother carried with her wherever she went, but all to no avail. On Saturday night’s at Mum’s parent’s place I
was instructed to mime the words, as the delicately tuned ears of the rest of
the family could not bear to be exposed to my tuneless voice. WHEW, that’s my 15 minutes. That was exhausting!
sorry about the formatting. It’s all over the place.
A nice piece, Clairelily. You reminded me of our carer supporter, Dear Colleen. She will sing to the kids whenever she’s here and I haven’t the heart to tell her how bad she sounds 🙂
The Imposter
I’m standing in the last place I thought I would ever stand. A shot put ring. And not just any shot put ring, the national championship shot put ring. Proud, picture-snapping, parents and eager athletes are perched on the rows of metal benches before me, crossing their fingers that I’m having an off day so they can proudly take the trophy home in their min-van.
Most people would call this moment an accomplishment. And I guess it is, since it would be a fine thing to put on a resume. But, I’m really just an imposter…a terribly disguised imposter. In the line-up of beefy girls, I look more like a gibbon than a fifteen-year-old girl. I’m lean and lanky, and my slender arms almost reach my knees as they sway on either side of my skinny body. I was sure that when I hopped off the bus, the track and field people would have taken one look at me, grabbed me by the shoulders, turned me around, and shot putted ME back into the bus. But no, I somehow made it here. A complete imposter at the nationals.
So you want to know how I ended up here? Alright, I’ll tell you. On my school’s track and field day, I happened to be hobbling around on crutches. I thought my injury would be an easy ticket home but much to my disappointment, “It’s participation that counts!”. The stocky, optimistic gym teacher quickly assigned me to marking the shot putters’ throws. I traced back and forth up the field with a long measuring tape for the entire morning.
When it came time for what would have been my category to compete, not a single girl showed up. After waiting for ten minutes, the gym teacher finally turned to me and said, “Well, Meghan, just throw one for the heck of it so we can mark something down.” I begrudgingly made my way to the centre of the ring and obediently tossed the metal ball with all my might. I nearly broke my floppy wrist in the process, only for it to land directly in front of my toes.
When it came time for my school to send the top girl in each category to nationals, my spindly self got kidnapped, thrown onto a school bus, and sent to the place I’m standing in right now. Which makes me, a complete imposter. Wish me luck.