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Mac Speakers series

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….”

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’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 Steve Varble 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.

Chillocothe.. 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. Riverboat Storyteller…$100,000… but a bit of professional jealousy… the problem is, I’m better than him. He: stories from American folklore. Me: stories from my own experience. This summer he finally asked me, “Do make some of this stuff up?” “No…I just pay attention to what happens.”

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… Ken Bradbury’s chair

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 !@#$.” 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.

I stumbled along for many years, then Rich McCoy asked me to come backstage before YOU CAN’T TAKE IT WITH YOU. Teaming up with Bob Crowe.. a real difference. Our relationship has changed my life as a writer. I write more. I write better. I write smarter. Formed a publishing company.

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.. and Iowa publisher.. Bob is a good promoter. I am not. Bob enjoys public performances. I usually dread them.

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. …Editor from Missouri: “Don’t write about schools or roads because we don’t care about either one.” …Proofreaders at the Journal Courier are the toughest of all 14 papers ….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. …There’s nothing in the world more exciting than a good idea. …

December 1st…begin touring with a show about Bullying On the grill…Misfits..J’ville July of 2012 Stoops…Hoogland, March Children’s book of poetry and drawings with Steve Varble

There’s a square in our town… Right there in our town… A central symmetrical square in our town.

In the square in our town the cars go around The people go ‘round, the gossip goes ‘round, The peacocks and Reeboks and flies fly around. The music goes ‘round and the folks hear the sound As the thoughts that once sped through their heads go around.

The laughter goes ‘round, and often (we’ve found) on the square in the town what goes ‘round comes around.

So we look at the square (It’s quite nice sitting there) We ponder and wonder why it’s called a square. After years of confusion we’ve reached the conclusion We really should call it a “Round.”

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.

Questions?

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