← Speeches & Workshops

Bishop Hill Writers

Obit.

This happens to me every time… I agree to speak on the subject of writing then the time gets close and I say to myself, “What the heck to I know about writing?”

An audience like this…3 types ---Those who’ve never heard of you ---Those who think you’re a writer because they’ve read your work ---Those who think you’re not a writer because they’ve read your work.

I don’t mind speaking here, but…..sometimes not great experience. IC Intro.. quiet.. the quicker start..

Recent speech to a civic club in St. Louis. Planned to talk on travel. Little old lady. “Glad you’re here. I’m getting damned tired of all the travel speeches we’ve been hearing.”

Roger Ebert.

If I’d done three brain surgeries last week I should be able to give you a rough idea of how it’s done…because at the time I was cutting into the skull I knew where I was going and what I wanted to accomplish…

The same can’t be said for writing..

I didn’t intend to be a writer…. As a joke I sent in a weekly column to paper…Hubberville Drippings… People liked the joke. Editor stole the concept and had it copywritten… Started Coonridge as a joke in competition with Hubberville…They took it seriously. I’ve never asked any newspaper to run my column…it runs in 14.

Wanted to be a mortician...needed money for mortuary school…Dad said get a teacher’s certificate. Night before graduating from IC…first real prayer… Jim Brim.. “By the way, can you direct plays?” I didn’t intend that.

Didn’t intend to write TV commercials… had to have one written and inquired…$200…That’s ridiculous.. I’ll write my own. The company hired me.

Mrs. Smith.. Perry 5th grade.. “Whatever you do….” I wrote about space ships and aliens….terrible. Grandpa, three fingers. Pop goes the weasel The teacher liked it! My friends liked it! 2 donkeys… one bucked Aunt Lizzie into a tank full of water Same! Grandma… cutting chickens head off… backed her into a bush Same!

First poem… Huh? What’d you do last night? I caught lightening bugs..fireflies.

The Boy with the Firefly Eyes

To the boy with the firefly eyes we said, “Boy.. with the firefly eyes. You shore can, yes you shore can catch them fireflies whether on or off those lights would go that boy would catch them high or low to the ground don’t you know that boy was fast!” Now fire----flies… the strange little things, Don’t come out in the day But they come out at that peculiar time When the light’s just fadin’ away

And you won’t find that firefly bug in a mug or a rug or your grandpa’s jug or anywhere else it seems. And you gotta grab fast or the light won’t last and the firefly’ll get away clean.

Oh, none could match his speed, he grace, and the way he caught those things. And in the firefly catchers club he was the absolute King. They’d go up and up he’d go! Fly low? He’d hit his knees… They’d whirl, he’d whirl…. They’d flash, he’d dash.. As easy as you please.

The trick he found, was to sit on the ground and pretend he wasn’t there Then just when mister lightening bug would glow he’d jump up in the air. And I’ll bet you think he killed ‘em when they were tryin’ to glow.. I gotta confess, he hated the mess and he always let ‘em go.

Got published in the school paper….all 40 copies.

The life of a writer.

Made notes for a few weeks… kept looking for an order. I speak a great deal and I like order. Found there was none. So a few random thoughts on writing.

I’m not speaking here because I’m a better writer than you…I’m just older. I’ve been doing it for a long time.

I’ve only recently considered myself as a writer. I still consider myself as a teacher who writes even though in some months I spend nearly as much time writing as I do in the classroom. I enjoy writing. Of all the things I do, I enjoy writing the most. I enjoy writing a play, more than I do producing it. I enjoy writing music more than listening to it. In my head, it’s perfect.

I would rather write than anything I know. Nothing more satisfying. Sunday night I was traveling with the illustrator of my last book and he asked me when I knew I was a writer. …I remember the moment vividly. Lucerne, Switzerland…been traveling through the Swiss Alps all day. That night: walk the town, moonlight fondue boat ride on Lake Lucerne, or take in a concert by a traveling boys choir from Austria. All I wanted to do was get back to my hotel room to write about what I’d seen that day. What a remarkably stupid choice! I must be a writer.

Audience response is nice, but…….Private shouts of joy which only my computer can hear are far better. Journal.. every day since 1969. Many shouts of joy in it.

My fantasy.. small cabin in Wales or Ireland (no income tax for writers). Piano. Computer. Dog (never had one before). (I’d probably give him away, but I’d like to give it a try.) A wooden desk. No phone. Lots of books. Pump water. Problem: I can’t fix anything. I’d probably starve or freeze, or get bitten by the dog. But I’d like to give it a try.

I’ve nearly stopped speaking on how to write. My answers are often unsatisfying. Spoke to writers conference at Sangamon State. Introduced me: I’d written over a hundred plays.. most produced author of competition scripts in the US and my answer to “How do I write?” I don’t know. I pray and sweat and it comes.. Not satisfying for the PhD’s congregated there. This doesn’t make a good how-to seminar on how to write.

A gift from God.. pure and simple. And. like all of God’s gifts, it takes one hell of a lot of work. Often Helen will call within minutes.

Chillicothe.. dead probably..

Writing…and Writing for Publication are two very different things. Publishing is a funny business. Iowa publishing company called: Banned in Indiana.. winning too many contests… Bob & I found the answer: Our answer… compiled into a play. Barnes & Noble declined to carry the first Coonridge book nationally.. too regional.. so we didn't inquire about the second. Logged into their Internet homepage last week.. Both are listed. Where’d they get ‘em? Bob: Don’t argue. Won the Associated Press Award… call from Springfield Journal Register. Then, “One of the best things we’ve ever read. However, too rural for our readers.”

Being published is dangerous. A Sermon Diary.

Give Genesis of Coonridge.. Hubberville..

I had to return to my family after 30 years to find out why I’m a writer. Recent family reunion… all telling stories of Perry 60 years ago. Storytellers. That’s why I believe we’re all writers. Some of you just haven’t begun yet. Fox once asked me, “Do make some of this stuff up?” “No…I just pay attention to what happens.”

Five years ago hired by a rival of one of my newspapers so I write for both. Like…commercials for States Attorney’s. Why not?

The downside of being a writer: My mother once had her check questioned.. Freida Marie…. Judge a speech contest at a distance. Hard to get a break for signing autographs. My students hear this and think what’s the big deal. Two little boys at the urinal. A hundred miles away makes you a celebrity. Facebook this week…Buffalo, New York… Ken Bradbury’s chair Jury duty… Cass County Courthouse

But being an amateur celebrity has changed the way I look at all celebrities. I begin to wonder if they’re as stupid as I am. I think that maybe they are.

Newspaper column… Angry lady from Chandlerville… writing about her drunken uncle, she thought. Crazy Aunt…. Brunhilda Liddy… Lady from J’ville. “My Aunt! You described her perfectly! She’s nuts!”

Lutheran minister…. Christmas tree. Distraught man from Chapin… people keep driving out here looking for Coonridge.

J. Peck in coffee shop. “I don’t read that shit!.” He writes it. “I know it!”

Two subjects which draw the most angry mail… Religion and politics.. “God may not be a Republican” letter from then Senator Chuck Robb of Virginia… (LBJ’s daughter Lynda) “I’ve been waiting twenty years from someone to write that column.”

My own hate fan club in Peoria… Militia members.. Don’t like my remarks about equality of the races. My lawyer says they haven’t threatened my life, so I can’t do anything about them. My revenge I write them back… told them I was a black, Jewish, lady.

Formed a publishing company. Owned for 20 years by my co-author..sold it to my sister-in-law. Slave driver.

It’s good to have a writing partner. Writing is a lonely life. Not sad. Not depressing.. just solitary. Never write together. He has the time and ambition to push my work and our work. First known only locally.. nd Iowa publisher.. Bob is a good promoter. I am not. Bob enjoys public performances. I usually dread them. I’m glad you’re having workshops on promotion and sales because I’m terrible at it. I’ve never asked for a writing job in my life…one newspaper, then another and another. Standing offer from a TV company… $200 a commercial and I can average 3 a day… and I don’t. There comes a point where if it’s not meaningful then I’d rather not do it.

Things I’ve learned: ….The earlier in the day, the better the writing. ….Never…NEVER write anything late at night then send it off…something mysterious happens to it when you go to sleep…it turns to garbage ….Magical strip of highway between Arenzville and Beardstown ….When another writer sends you his or her work and asks you to give an honest evaluation, he or she is lying. …The kiss of death. “I have this good idea that I think you should write.” …Editor from Missouri: “Don’t write about schools or roads because we don’t care about either one.” ….Racists can’t spell. …Creativity is just a muscle. …Writers Block is for wimps. Writers write. This guy sits on his couch and says, “I can’t drive!” Of course you can’t you idiot. You’re sitting on a couch. Go get in the car. My uncle is a mechanic. When he’s stumped by a leaky hose he doesn’t say, “I can’t work on it. I have mechanic’s block.” …There’s nothing in the world more exciting than a good idea. When I’m working on a great concept I have trouble sleeping. …

Current Projects… a play for the NAACP, a show about people who’ve lived along a certain creek, a show about Grandfathers, a new musical for next summer: Genesis, a new musical called “Yard Sale,” a commissioned work for the National Parks Service …Lincoln just after his death.

From my most recent book…

These People at My Door

I wonder sometimes…in my head…lying there upon my bed As noises of the wind all roar and leaves start clicking at my door. That sound…that rustle…barely heard A branch? A leaf? A mouse? A bird? Just tap-tap-tapping without words….Something at my door.

What if I lived long years ago in days of cold, nose numbing snows? When traveling was harsh and bleak…and heard that noise… Would I seek to look aside, afraid of what I’d see outside? Would I rise and chance to find…..Something at my door?

A shivering group of runaways, men and women, children …slaves Huddled there with blankets wrapped …no shoes, no food, no winter hats. Their eyes would seek my own and then they’d ask if I would take them in… Would I take them? Could I take them …These people at my door?

If I had been alive when they had reached my door, these runaways Fleeing from the whip and lash, made a slave by race and class, Stolen from their former lives to toil and sweat and sometimes die Would I hide them on this night? Would I risk my very life?…These people at my door?

They walked by night and slept by day, these desperate, haunted runaways And by a route called “underground” they stumbled, humbled, northward bound. Seeking shelter where they could…a bit roof, a crumb of food A place to hide themselves by day…Would I say, “You’re welcome. Stay.” . . . These people at my door?

The law came first for runaways but next to those who dared and gave The slaves a way they might be freed ….an evil law…but law, indeed. And what I thought was God’s own will would doom my own life, even still… Would I dare to take them in? Would I take this chance for them? ….These people at my door.

Frightened eyes in black faces…. A baby cries….a mother paces… A hungry father says, “Sir, please…” A young girl drops on weary knees…

I wonder sometimes…in my head…lying there upon my bed As noises of the wind all roar and something taps upon my door. It’s more than wind . . . it’s more than cold… It’s something deeper in my soul. I open up the door and then…. I don’t know. I just…don’t…know.

I’ll Take My Jesus Dancing By Ken Bradbury

My coffee..yea, I’ll take it black... my fiction, slightly salty.. and oh...Oh, Let it fill the air...I’ll take my Jesus dancing. Not the bleeding, suffering Jesus, woeful Jesus of the thorns Are you washed in the Guilt of the Lamb? Not the stained-glass, pious Jesus, holy-moldy church-hung Jesus, I’ll take my Jesus dancing.

Not the painful, trudging Jesus, hanging on the cross of Sorry Not the awe-ful, noble warrior, tramping o’er the heads of sinners Not the Son of Sorrows Jesus, Not the Lamb so stained with blood Not the bruised and beaten icon stained with leaded glass & wood. Not the pulpit pounding ranter, not the screaming Dixie banshee. “My Jesus don’t beat bibles, boy!”

Not the teleprompter Jesus, 1-800-FOR-A-BLESSING Not the Technicolor pirate “When my Rolls’ recalled up yonder you’ll be saved.” Not the white tuxedoed savior taking Nashville buck by buck Not the silk-lined, smooth-tongued savior, topping charts with fiscal song Not the slick and quick tongued hawker, Ruse of Sharon, Quick to Save.. Not the mansion-building prophet, blindly binding bucks with blessings.

My Jesus sings, My Jesus smiles, My Jesus taps his feet with joy. Daring birds to match his tenor... Taunting meadowlarks to join... Bringing crows into the contest... His head tossed back in gales of laughter, His eyes convulsed to joyous squints... And when he laughs, the mountains answer, When he roars, the hills respond.. And when he dances..Jesus dances...all creation joins the chorus.

His cutoff jeans unstained by tints of liturgies and histories... His T-shirt white and happily frayed, A logo blazened cross his chest “No Fear! Just Life!” His laughing eyes ... tearless now, He winks at me, a secret shared... A tiny glimpse of what’s in store... Only teasing with a taste........there’s more...there’s more.

I’ll take my Jesus dancing, mountain high and treetop tall... Dancing with the wind beneath him, Dancing with the sun around him, Moonlight dancing, sparrow dancing, barefeet tickling water dancing, Dancing through the prairie summer, Dancing o’er the lakes of winter Jumping, Floating, whirlwind making, I’ll take him...take my Jesus dancing.

Get down, J-man! Let them see you! Tapping out the tune of Glory! Sidestep all the piety so lightly... Do it, J-man! Do it lightly..stop the show .... bring down the house! Awed, BoJangles smiles in envy... Cowed, Astaire shouts “Do it, Baby!” Clog with all the love that’s in ya, Rock-a-bye my baby bluenote! Tip the lights and rock creation...Dance it, J-man! Let them feel it!

And laughing...did you hear that? Laughing? Laughing like the lark was holy! Laughing, gut-bust, ribble-ticking, Laughing from a new-found depth of joy now Laughing ... deep and gutsy roaring... Laughing as all fear is beaten! Laughing! Laughing! Laughing! ....... Dancing!

We’ve made our myths to match our sorrows, Built assumptions from our fears Sanitized our own presumptions of your spirit through the years. Show us now, oh Spirit Dancer..Show us now the steps you dance Show the secrets to your two-step, rumba, cha-cha, spirit dance. Oh let it roll and rock and rumble, take the stage and make your stance Rock on, Rock on, oh lovely Jesus...show us how to dance your dance!

And then, yes then, we’ll know the meaning... Then, yes then, we’ll taste the grace Then, yes then, we’ll run to join you. Dance it, Jesus! Jesus, dance!

Questions?