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  Wake Up and Write Writer's Retreat Workshop

dialogue with doc

Not about heroes...

11/29/2016

 
Part of my journey in the two weeks of writing workshops was a stop at West Point, where my nephew Quinn is in his final year. It was a brief visit, just enough time for a burger at his club's tailgate after the football game, then a quick tour of the campus in the swiftly dimming light.

I'd been at West Point twice before, because my sister and I grew up reading the novels of Janet Lambert, who set many of her novels in the area surrounding the US Military Academy. She was married to an Army officer, and wrote wonderful books for teenagers set mainly on Army posts or with some military connection. Her first book, Star Spangled Summer, was published in 1941, and she wrote continuously until her final book in 1969, Here's Marny.

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Janet Lambert
Her Army-related books started just before World War II, included a heartbreaking foray into Korea, and ended with Vietnam. In Star Spangled Summer, which is a Penny Parrish book, her sister Tippy is four years old. Here's Marny, Lambert's final book, is focused on a young orphan who lives with Tippy and her husband 28 years later, making Tippy in her early thirties.

Throughout the books the characters age in real time, live in various places in the US and around the world, and have intersecting stories in which characters weave in and out of each other's lives as we so often do.
My sister Mic and I loved those books, and we both still re-read them to this day. Yes, we read other things as well, but neither of us has ever outgrown our love for the Parrishes and the Jordans, with a dash of Candy Kane thrown in for good measure. She did write some other non-Army books, though none of them captured our hearts in the same way.
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Why did we fall in love with those characters and the world they lived in? Maybe part of it was the mystique of the military. When we were growing up in the late 50's and throughout the 60's, we believed wholeheartedly in the goodness of the military. We didn't really understand the reality of war, except when a much loved character would die.

It wasn't always a safe world she created. At the same time, her characters took on their challenges with grace and enthusiasm for the most part. Janet Lambert wrote about veterans living with pain from their wounds, death, the effects of war on the losing country - she handled big subjects, and she made them personal and intimate in their impact on character and reader alike.

From sixteen-year-old Jennifer valiantly coping with the seven young Jordans while her father was off fighting WWII, to Tippy Parrish unceremoniously yanked out of her happy teenage life on Governor's Island and thrust into the grim reality of a defeated, bombed Germany post WWII, Lambert tells warm, tender stories against a background of a world that no longer exists in the same way.

Mic and I laughed at ourselves, because we needed a box of tissues nearby every time we read Don't Cry Little Girl. We talked about the Parrishes and the Jordons as if they were our own family. And we both delighted in A Song in Their Hearts, when Candy Kane and her husband Barton became friends with Tippy and Peter.

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Janet Lambert was a world-builder and a developer of wonderful characters, not all of them nice. Gwen Jordon takes the prize for complexity, though there are a few others who give her a run for her money. One of the most interesting is Davy Parrish, son of David, the hero of the first book. Davy is stricken with polio when a very young boy, and the complications from that reverberate through the rest of the series as Davy tries to follow in his father's footsteps as a West Point cadet.
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Which brings me full circle to my experience of visiting West Point with my nephew Quinn. His twin, Lane, is also in his final year of Army ROTC at University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, and now I begin to understand the gallantry of Marjorie Parrish and Jennifer Jordon and all of the people who had a loved one in harm's way in her books. Lane and Quinn will be second lieutenants by this time next year, stationed who knows where, and while I'm proud of them and their commitment to service, I am also well aware of the dangers they will face.

When I read Janet Lambert books now, they will have a resonance they never had before. It makes me wonder if, as a writer, I will write something that will resonate for someone I will never meet...

One footnote on the title of this post - Not About Heroes is the title of a play on the WWI poets, Siegfried Sassoon and Wilfred Owen. The play title was ironic, as is the post title. It is not about heroes, and yet it is. Owen's work, in particular, is heart-wrenching in its expression of the realities of war, and heartbreaking because he was one of the casualties of the war. I don't think of war itself as heroic; rather the willingness to put oneself in harm's way to protect others, many of whom you will never know - that is heroic. To carry on quietly the life at home while a loved one is away at war - that, too, is heroic. So this is not about heroes, and yet it is...

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Quinn
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Lane

Deep gratitude...

11/22/2016

 
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The late, amazing Gary Provost
Monday, November 14th was the first day for the first Wake Up and Write Writer's Retreat Workshop. Coincidentally, it was Gary's birthday, or would have been had he still been alive. 

I'd like to think I did him proud with the workshop. The staff and students sure did. It was an incredible experience to be with them in a very special space, and be a part of the work everyone was doing and sharing.

We had novelists, of course, as well as a playwright, a short story writer, and a writer of narrative non-fiction. Everyone fully embraced what was offered and participated wholeheartedly. It was a gift, and one that we all gave to each other throughout the week.

We only had five nights together, six days. Because of that, I kept the focus on craft, not on marketing or selling. That focus paid off the last night when we had readings, and had a chance to listen to everyone else's work. It was moving, funny, and intimate.
It's interesting, trying to write this blog.  So much of what I would share, I can't, because it was intimate. What I will share are a few of my own experiences.

It was the first time that everyone participated in writing practice, which I learned from Natalie Goldberg. That's when we sit in meditation for a few minutes, then write with a prompt that I give the group. I'm used to one or two folks not showing up, or even getting up and walking out in the middle. Not this group. Everyone stayed, sat, wrote, and read. It meant a lot to me.

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David Corbett, deconstructing Chinatown for the group
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Discussion and debate
Another moment was when I did a class on pulling all of the layers together - character, story,  language, using the song "Non-Stop" from Hamilton. It was the first time I taught from that material, and I played part of each of the individual musical themes, so they could hear them in the song, and hear how they were woven together and built to a tremendous crescendo. The song invariably moves me to tears, and it was a great illustration of bringing the elements into one, cohesive, powerful statement.
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The deep gratitude in the title includes so many people. Gary for sure. And Gail. Without their generosity and love, as well as Gary's teaching,, my life would be completely different. Natalie Goldberg for sharing writing practice. All of the folks over the years I've worked with at WRW. David, Tex, and Jason, who were a wonderful group of teachers for this workshop. The kind and caring staff at St. Raphaela, who made such a welcoming space for a group of writers. And most of all, deep gratitude to Peter, Bernie, Charles, Diane, Dave, Deb, Paula, Martha, Eric, and Kelley. Your great effort was a gift to all of us...
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Musings from the road...

11/8/2016

 
We are less than a week from the first Wake Up and Write Writer's Retreat Workshop. I'm in the midst of the Write Unboxed Unconference in Salem, Massachusetts. And the presidential election of 2016 is unfolding on the television as I write this. There were some non-election activities planned for this evening, but not only did I not participate, I got take-out from the tavern downstairs and planted myself in front of the television. At last night's opening dinner I sat next to a guy who majored in political science and we talked a bit about what would happen tonight.  I referred to myself as a recent "political wonk" - at least when it comes to presidential politics.

That observation came back to me this morning as I sat in a session on creating characters. I had explained to my new friend that my interest had to do with West Wing and President Obama, and in the light of day I knew that that was only the recent part of the story. The things that influence us on a subconscious level are often unnoticed until years later. What I would say right now is that I became interested in power.

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Face to face with a live bald eagle at the National Eagle Center in Minnesota
That's not to say that I have any interest in running for office. It goes deeper than that. I can remember being a kid, and becoming aware that I had no power to overrule decisions made by adults, even though it was my life and my interests that were involved. At one point I realized that my relationship with my mother bore more than a slight resemblance to a line in a Billy Joel song - "...a constant battle for the ultimate state of control."

When I got into college, I started out as a religious studies major. During my first year, I switched to major in communications/theatre. I acted in a play, but more important, I got interested in the idea of directing. Once I started to direct in the second semester of my sophomore year, I never acted again, except in a class. What was interesting about my directing was that underclassmen did not direct. However, I wanted to direct an original musical written by a fellow student. One of my theatre pals who had graduated advised me on how to approach the one-man theatre department, Mr. M. as we called him.

Mr. M. told me no when I first asked him if I could direct. I've always been stubborn, but there was something different about this. I knew that if I really wanted to do it, I had to keep trying, and to come up with a compelling reason for him to change his mind. It was a carefully orchestrated presentation, and I was successful.

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The picture above is the Little Theatre, now known as the Leone Marinello Little Theatre. The black walls, when I directed there, were the warm, light brown color of natural wood. The carpet under the chairs was red.  And the stage under the black plywood box was natural wood with steps the width of the theatre that led down into the house. Mr. M. designed it himself, and it was both challenging and rewarding to act and direct on that stage.

That whole move, from religious studies, to theatre, to directing was also about power. During the years I spent in meditation at San Francisco Zen Center, one of the things I learned was that I felt powerless most of the time. We all spend much of our lives walking a tightrope of power - what we have, what we don't have.

I don't know how tonight's election will turn out. The power I had there was to cast my vote for the candidates and issues of my choice. Everyone else had to do the same.

I don't know how my writing or either of the workshops will turn out either. There I have a lot more power, to focus my attention, pursue my goals and my dreams, and speak/write the truth of my understanding. Words have power. If I wield words, I wield power, or at least, I do if people read them.

How do you feel about power? Does it make you uncomfortable, or do you enjoy it? Think about it. We all have it...

Be well, my friends.

Doc

Mom part 6...

11/1/2016

 
“They (the Irish) are good-humored, charming, hospitable, and gregarious…”
                                                                                                   Monica, McGoldrick, Ethnicity and Family Therapy
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Mom, Dad, Jerry & Cel McCabe
Over the years Mom had a multitude of friends and family surrounding her. Whether it was vacationing at the beach or a family reunion, Mom enjoyed talking with the people she loved. She could spend hours on the phone with one of her siblings, or with a good friend. When the TV series Knots Landing was on, I can remember sitting with Mom in the TV room while she simultaneously watched the show and talked with my brother Kevin about it on the phone. For Mom, everything was more fun if there was someone with whom to share the joy.
 

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The Burnham (sister Helen and her family) holiday brunch with a few of the Dougherty clan
Kids, Grandkids, and Great-Grandkids

Mom loved her children. There were times when that love darn near drove us crazy. She had great expectations of all of us, and a firm belief that her expectations wouldn’t just be met, but exceeded. That extended to her grandchildren as they came along, and had she known her great-grandchildren beyond infancy, I’m sure it would have extended to them as well.

She was the matriarch of our clan, and some of us were fortunate enough to know her for many years. One of the reasons I started to write this was for the ones who will only know her from our stories and pictures. There was nothing she loved more than having her children and their children around her. And she did get to meet some of her great-grandchildren before she died, though they won’t all remember it.
Pat and Doc

It was a love story that lasted for more than 60 years, was blessed with a healthy, happy family, and was filled with enough joy, laughter, grief, and loss for many lifetimes. There’s no doubt that his loving care kept her alive during her battle with Alzheimer’s. She lit up when he came into her room at Vincentian Home at the end of her life. His commitment to taking care of her was reminiscent of her care of her dad and Rita Rooney at the end of their lives, only this time she was on the receiving end.

In her autobiography Mom wrote, “Mama and Papa Smith...would turn over in their grave if they knew what a gem they had in their first born daughter…” My feeling is that if they did turn over in their grave, it would only be to get a better look. They can be proud of her. After all, Dad never got to the other names on that list of potential dates...

That's the bulk of what I wrote about Mom. I did a little editing and included far fewer pictures. Can you every really share the essence of another person in words? Probably not. And I won't pretend that I've completely come to terms with my relationship with Mom.  I expect that will take a lifetime, after all, there's always something more to learn.

The picture on the right is special to me, because that's my dog, Blarney, posing with Mom and Dad. Blarney was the only dog Mom ever allowed to hang out in her house (other than a few dogs who had to live in the basement during their short stay). She loved Blarney so much she even let her sit on the porch furniture, shocking Mic no end. She even agreed to babysit Blarney occasionally if I had to go out of town, which led to a moment of great embarrassment for her. I came back and she confessed to me that during the night Blarney had eaten a quarter pound of fudge, box and all, that Mom left in the family room. Blarney was none the worse for it - her sturdy Lab frame was able to handle it - but Mom made sure to put away the goodies before she went to bed from then on!

Below is a copy of the obituary I wrote, and that Dad, Mic, and Kev helped to edit. I hope you've enjoyed meeting Mom and the rest of the clan.

I'll be at writing workshops the next two weeks, so I'm not sure if I'll get the blogs done, and if I do, if they'll be on time. Stay tuned...

Doc

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Mom, Dad, and Blarney
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    Carol (Doc) Dougherty

    An avid reader, writer, and student, with a penchant for horse racing, Shakespeare, and the Pittsburgh Steelers.

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