Compost :: From the Compost

Dec

Compost: Writing for Real

By Kim · Comments (1)

Do you want to write real? Down to the bones and the blood, past all the fakery and pretense? Well of course you do, most writers are truth seekers.

But sometimes this isn’t easy. Words by their very nature are not the truth – they are second-hand removals from the truth. They are descriptions of the truth.

When I want to practice writing “real” I will write a short piece about children. The younger the better, preferably at the stage when they’ve just become verbal, say three or so. Three year olds have no filters. They see the world in ways that you have forgotten, because they haven’t been around long enough to know how things “should be.”

Here’s what I scribbled after spending some time with my grandson Desmond a couple of months ago, when he was almost three:

One time when Desmond stayed at my house, I gave him a kiwi fruit for lunch. He called it a green strawberry and asked me if it was sick. I said no, it was a kiwi and he laughed because he said kiwi sounded like what the birds say.

I peeled the kiwi and he picked up the skin and asked, why does the kiwi wear a coat? Then he asked where I got the kiwi, and I said I bought it at the grocery store but maybe the grocery store got it from a farm in New Zealand or Australia, countries a long way away where the kiwis and the kangaroos are. That got his attention because Desmond likes to jump like a kangaroo.

He asked me to tie a scarf around his waist so it hung down his butt and he pretended he had a long tail like a kangaroo. Then I said, but Desmond, kangaroos have very big feet too, which gave him the idea of putting on my shoes so he’d have big feet and a tail.

He hopped over to the table where his peeled and sliced kiwi fruit was waiting for him, and he at last consented to eat it. His verdict: he prefers his strawberries red, but he likes being a kangaroo.

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Dec

Compost: Teacher Kim

By Kim · Comments (0)

It does not matter what mood I’m in when I start teaching, because as soon as I get in the room with people who have come to listen to what I have to say, Teacher Kim, one of my many alter egos, comes out to sit in my chair or stand at the front of the room. Teacher Kim is always in a good mood, not because she is some kind of Pollyanna Lookalike, but because she loves her job. She loves writing, she loves teaching, she loves history, so naturally she loves teaching how to write personal history.

There’s another reason underneath this – Teacher Kim also loves being right. Every time she teaches she is again proved right – everyone really does have poetry within, everyone really does have something to say, everyone really does matter. “I’m right, I’m right!” she cries joyously in a voice like bells, and her good mood overpowers any stinkiness I might have been feeling before she appeared.

I love Teacher Kim.

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Nov

Compost: When I Was Beautiful

By Kim · Comments (0)

Here’s something I wrote in an exercise that asks you to start each sentence with the same phrase; this one “I remember.”

I remember when I was beautiful; when I was a warm hayloft filled with night and silver moons, chuting stars, stirring hay. I remember the soft sounds of huffing and sighing, and the smell of sweet breath of a lover stinging my nostrils. I remember when I was round, and open, and full. I remember when I was the moon Herself, smiling.

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Nov

Compost: The Story of an Orange Kitten

By Kim · Comments (0)

Pablo is my daughter’s kitten. He smells like a kitten, an odor compounded of fur and innocence, as recognizable as oranges.

Pablo does not hide his light. He does not say, “Oh I am only a kitten, not very important.” He goes ahead and plays with his toys and his tail, and his light gambols with him, a happy bouncing ball of dust and kitten life.

Pablo creeps onto my chest when I visit and curls between my breasts in the small hollow where it’s smooth and warm. He sleeps with his tail almost in his mouth, so he looks like an earmuff. He purrs in harmony with the rhythm of my heartbeat in a peace only possible in the exact right place, that place where thoughts depart and purrs begin. The glow of warm oranges lights the room.

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Oct

Compost: Curiosity

By Kim · Comments (0)

Did you know that the most important characteristic for a successful ghostwriter is not writing ability? It’s true. The ability to write well is necessary, of course, but there is a trait that’s even more important.

That trait is curiosity. When you write for someone else, your client’s life and ideas must be as interesting to you as your own. You need to really want to know what Cleveland looked like in the spring, even if you’ve never been to Cleveland and have no plans to go there. You need to want to understand what it felt like to be a soldier in the Vietnam War, even if you would never consider the military life. You need to want to know the secrets behind the plumbing business, or the history of a house you have never seen, or … you get the idea.

To be a successful ghostwriter, you must have a rock-solid belief that life is fascinating and that everyone has a story or an idea that can illuminate someone else’s life.

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Oct

Compost: Writing Success

By Kim · Comments (0)

I often tell my clients that if they want to write a book in order to become rich and famous, they should probably think of another way of getting rich and famous. Being a published author has not brought me fame or pots of money, although it does help to pay the mortgage. Mostly, it has brought me a great deal of pride and satisfaction. If 100 years from now, my great-great-great grandchild is reading something I wrote, it might even have brought me a measure of immortality.

The most practical benefit I got from being a published author is that it opened doors in helping me to establish my business and my reputation as a ghostwriter. When I was writing my own “stuff,” I couldn’t make enough money to quit my day job and be a writer full time. It wasn’t until I started writing for other people that I was able to go out on my own. There’s a lesson in there somewhere – I think it is this: “It’s not about you.”

Even when you write your own stuff, it still isn’t about you — it’s always about your readers. If there weren’t any readers, there’d be no point in writing. Writing is just another way of communicating; but writing allows you to communicate without the restrictions of time and space. I think if you keep “it’s not about you” in front of you all the time, you can’t go far wrong.

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Sep

Compost: Crabfeed

By Kim · Comments (2)

Exactly 16 years ago today, my brother called me and asked me the same question he asked me every year at this time, unless I asked him first: “What are you getting Dad for his birthday?”

Our father was impossible to buy gifts for. He didn’t believe in what he called “conspicuous consumption” so he had all the “things” and “gadgets” that he needed or wanted. For Christmas and his birthday I often bought him books, and my brother often bought him things like sweaters or slippers, but these get old after a while, you know? One memorable birthday when my brother was around 12, he bought my dad a bag of Walla Walla sweet onions, because Dad had claimed that they were so sweet they could be eaten raw like apples. Then my brother dared Dad to eat one. Which he did. We have pictures.

But 16 years ago we were both adults and had been struggling to buy memorable birthday presents for many years, with varying degrees of success. That was the year our father turned 79. As we discussed our familiar dilemma, one of us said (my brother claims it was him, but I’m not sure this is true – it could have easily been me) “Hey, Dad loves crab, why don’t we just get him a whole bunch of crab and throw a feast for him and the whole family – all three of his kids, and all his grandchildren?” There were 6 grandchildren at that time, aged 22 to 1 month, although later there were more, and great-grandchildren too. Our father was crazy about his grandkids. He was an unusual man for his generation – he loved, absolutely loved, babies and little kids. So having a party centered around his kids and grandkids, and crab, was certain to make him happy.

We brought our mother into the picture, since she was the one who’d have to clean up the mess the party made of the house (we didn’t tell her this, but she knew it was true) and she agreed it was a great idea. We called this festival Crabfeed and it was a rousing success. There were Mom and Dad, their three kids, the kids’ spouses, the 6 grandchildren (at the time) and we had to put the extra leaf in the table to hold all the whole just-cooked Dungeness crab. (We live in the Pacific Northwest where Dungeness crab is to die for.) We also added steamed clams (my brother’s specialty, made with Chardonnay, butter, and garlic, and evil befall the grocery purchaser if she forgets the garlic, which I did once, ten years ago, and am still hearing about it today), and shrimp salad, and for one of our members who thought she was a vegetarian at the time, we had some pasta with tomato sauce. (It ruined the look of the table, but hey, we are an accepting family. The next year one of the other younger grandchildren caught a glimpse of a crab being boiled, and being a tender-hearted girl of 7, refused to eat the poor things. She joined her vegetarian cousin for pasta that year.)

We ate and ate and ate, and while we ate, we talked and talked and talked and laughed a lot. We told old stories. (You can bet the Walla Walla Sweet story was told). We told new stories. We talked about hopes and dreams for the future. We hashed over current events. We argued a little bit, although not bitterly. We loved each other.

And every year since then, around Dad’s Sept 27th birthday, we get together for another Crabfeed. We’ve not missed for 16 years. We have members in our family who don’t remember not having Crabfeed. It has taken on a life of its own. In our family you can’t miss Crabfeed – it would be like missing Christmas.

Last year, when our father was 93, was the last Crabfeed he attended. This year he will not be attending, at least not in the flesh, since he died a month ago. But Crabfeed goes on. We hope it goes on until the great-grandchildren are grandparents themselves. It is our holiday, our very own, a simple party just for us, full of crab and laughter and memories.

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Sep

Compost: Beginnings and Endings

By Kim · Comments (0)

Long ago, or maybe only yesterday …

When I tell stories, especially to children, I always start and end them the same way. My stories begin with “Long ago or maybe only yesterday” and the end with “And so it ends, or maybe it is just beginning.”

Storytelling is a magic art. I like to think that my way of beginning and ending stories draws a magic circle around the story, showing that it comes from a land of paradox and wonder where nothing is impossible and time is variable and might not even exist.

And so it ends, or maybe it is just beginning …

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Aug

Compost: Is Ghostwriting Cheating?

By Kim · Comments (0)

You can hire a ghostwriter to help you put your ideas and stories into words that will excite, inspire, inform or delight your readers. Ghostwriters will do all the writing work for you, from organization and structure to color and characterization – basically from your head and out the ghostwriter’s fingers.

But wait – isn’t that cheating? Some people think so. This goes back to school days, when having someone else write your term paper was cheating. (It still is.) But that was because having someone else write for you meant you were not learning, which was then your primary job. It was also cheating to use a calculator while taking a math test, because you were supposed to be learning how to do mathematics, not punch buttons.

This is no longer true. You can use a calculator now without guilt. You can also hire a writer to help you put your ideas on paper. (Of course they must be your ideas – it’s still wrong to steal others’ ideas and pass them off as your own.)

Hiring a writer is a little like hiring an architect. Say you are finally able to build your dream house. You have lots of ideas for this house. You know how many bedrooms you want; you know you want it on a wooded lot where the deer feed in the mornings; you know your kitchen must have a central island and space for at least two people to cook; you know you want natural gas heat; and you even know that your jacuzzi bathtub must overlook a private patio with a great view of the mountains. You know you like blues and tans and that your taste runs to impressionist art like Monet and Morisot, and you hate the pop-art of Andy Warhol. Your style is elegant and cool instead of funky and casual, and you admire the work of I.M. Pei.

Wow, you know a lot, don’t you? But can you draw up the plans to build this house? Do you know which materials to buy and which carpenters to hire? Do you know how to wire the house, and how the plumbing works, and where to apply for all the permits? Probably not. Can you learn? Sure – if you’ve got a few spare years.

So instead you hire an architect or a construction firm, and you tell them everything you want and what matters to you, and they translate your ideas into a living reality. But it’s still your house. It reflects who you are, not who the architect is. When someone admires the beauty of your house, they are admiring you – your taste, your plans, your ideas.

It’s the same with your book. Your original ideas and stories belong to you, therefore so does your book, even though you may not have written it all by yourself. This is why the copyright of your book belongs to you, not your ghostwriter. And be sure to get it in writing!

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Aug

Compost: What’s in a Name?

By Kim · Comments (1)

I have a brand-new granddaughter, born just a few days ago. My daughter, her mother, named her June, after my mother. The stories behind names tell us so much. Here is the story behind little June’s name:

When my mother Lois June Winter, little June’s great-grandmother, was born in 1921, the name “Lois” was all the rage, mainly because a silent-screen actress named Lois Wilson was popular then. In fact, in Lois’ tiny high school graduation class of 1939, three of the fifteen girls in that class were named Lois!

But the name June was different. No one else she knew had this name; it was her special name and she loved it. Her mother had wanted to give her June as a first name, but her dad thought the name “June Winter” sounded a little strange, so he talked her mom into going with June as a middle name.

Lois’ mother Mabel loved the name June because she was reading the book “The Trail of the Lonesome Pine” when she was pregnant. Mabel was only 17 at the time, and this book was a romantic tale of a mountain girl named June who fell in love with a “furriner”, or outsider. It had great appeal for a romantic teenage girl.

Times were tough when Lois was growing up during the Depression. Her parents were busy trying to make ends meet, and could not give Lois many “special things.” But she always felt that her middle name June was her mother’s special gift, just for her.

Many years later, when Lois herself was a mother of a little girl (me), she often gave me dolls for my birthday or Christmas. She told me how when she was a little girl she always wished she could have a pretty doll with pretty clothes, but there wasn’t enough money. So she was especially happy to give me the prettiest dolls with the prettiest clothes she could find.

And even more years later, when I too was a mother, one time Lois was having a tough year. So for Mother’s Day that year I bought her a doll to cheer her up, even though she was a grandmother and too old to play with dolls. It was the prettiest doll I could find, with very pretty clothes.

Oh, she was so happy! Her face lit up and she put that doll on her bedside table, where it sat for many years, all the rest of her life. She named the doll – guess what? Yep – June.

After Lois died, the doll June came back to me, and has sat on my bedside table for the last two years. And now she is going home – to my granddaughter June. I hope she will love her too. She is special.

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