Random facts about Kathryn

My friend Melanie tagged me. It's a chain game among bloggers that, should everyone play, serves to drive traffic to your blog. The crux of the assignment is to list six random things about yourself, then pass the assignment on to six others. I enjoyed reading hers so, in like spirit, here we go. Six random facts about me:

1. I have broken every chain letter or e-mail ever sent to me, even fun ones like this. For one thing, I am new to blogging, and outside of the friends Mel and I have in common, don't yet know six bloggers I could send this to. Plus, I hate to annoy people. So much so, in fact, that when I was young, the anxiety of having to go door to door to sell Girl Scout Cookies—a proven product!—was enough to make me quit Scouts after only one year. (This will mean more to those of you who are acquainted with my high-achieving self well enough to know how painful it was for me to lose the opportunity to continue to earn badges for my sash.)

2. Head connections. 

I once shook hands with champion downhill skier Jean-Claude Killy, who had recently won three medals in the 1968 Olympics. Our neighbor in Baltimore was an executive with Head skis, for which Jean-Claude (oh yeah, first name basis!) was doing a promotion. Since this executive's wife was too pregnant to entertain, my parents had a party at our house in his honor. While guests congregated in the living room and dining room, my four siblings and I, dressed nicely, sat on the couch in the family room until he arrived. After we stood he shook each of our hands, saying our names. With his French accent, mine was "Katrine." Yes, it rhymed with latrine but it was enough to make my 12-year-old heart palpitate. My favorite memory of the day, though: my older sister had been entrusted with making the coffee in one of those big party percolators. After reading the directions to determine how many "cups" of coffee to put in the basket, she used a "one-cup coffee measure" instead of a measuring cup. Espresso it wasn't!

3. It's the process that matters. Before ending my six years at Miami University in Oxford, Ohio, by leaving with a master's degree, I had officially declared seven different majors. The only job I ever held that required any of these fields of academic study was a one-year adjunct teaching position at Trenton State College, NJ, for which I earned $600 per semester.

4. Twelve interminable weeks. While student teaching biology in a suburban Cincinnati high school to which inner city students were being newly bussed in 1978: each day I had to reproduce my lesson plan for the third of the class that would need to learn the material by themselves via worksheet while sitting in in-school detention; I was cussed out for being a bigot by the mother of a black boy who I was required to punish for cussing me out during class (I determined a few weeks later that this same boy couldn't even read); a fist fight between two boys broke out in my class; a girl went into hysterics (she literally had trouble breathing) when her lab partner accidentally flung an earthworm off the dissecting needle into her face, requiring that I send her to the nurse; two kids lit up a joint in the back of my biology room, requiring I call the police; and one day the big class bully put the trash can up on the lab counter then picked up hyperactive little Nathan Feldman, folded him in half, and plopped him butt-first into the can. I could not get him down. And to think I'd wanted to teach because I loved biology. I ended up leaving my position early to have a grapefruit-sized ovarian cyst surgically removed, an activity I found much more pleasurable than student teaching. The kids made me a card that everyone signed: "We miss you so much!"

5. Them's me genes. Growing up I had such a crush on my older cousin Bob that I couldn't speak when he was in the room. Maybe it was the genes: we're both descended from a private in the American Revolution whose parents were second cousins. Another family tree fun fact is that my husband and I own property on a lake in northern New York state (as does cousin Bob, who has been married happily for many years to a woman from outside our family). Five generations of my extended family have summered there, but it turns out our ties to the area go back much further: a  local newspaper, in probing the history of the lake, found that the first white man to discover the area was my great-great-great-great-great-grandfather, Esek Earle, in 1813. His first comment upon seeing it for the first time: "I have found a place where we can kill all the deer we need." 

6. Look at this face:

Unbelievable as it seems, and unready as I am, I am a grandmother! Not technically, I guess, as this is my husband's adopted daughter's son. But genetics aside, when you look at a face like that, you find yourself saying, "Can you say, 'Grandma?'"

Movin' and Shakin' in the Lehigh Valley

Wednesday night, in the spirit of "Dancing with the Stars," members of the Lehigh Valley Arts Council looked on while three area dancers paired up with untrained-but-game community members to compete for... bragging rights (a REAL reality show). As with most arts endeavors the greater reward was not in the destination, but in the journey. Although they did grip those trophies tightly.

Joining me on the judges' panel, above, were ceramicist/"dancing monk" Rafael Canizares and Allentown Main Street manager/glass blower Peter Lewnes. With a 19-year background in this capacity at The Morning Call (writing under the names Kathryn Williams and Kathryn Williams Craft), I can tell you it was the most fun I've ever had as a dance critic. No grant money would ride on my words, no tender creative spirit would be squelched beneath them. Indeed, like Simon Cowell on American Idol, the more I "let it rip," the greater the booing and the higher the entertainment value, everyone realizing it was all in good fun.

While the female judge usually sits on the left on this show, once we figured out that I was the oldest, I drew the Len Goodman spot. My comments were aimed toward performance quality. "Carrie Ann" was Rafael, who tapped his background in ballroom dance to dissect technical expertise; Peter, like effusive Bruno Tonioli, played cheerleader. (Of course, Peter's main qualification for the judges' panel was that he does his laundry on Monday nights at the house of a friend who watches the show.) 

The hosts were Randall Forte, Executive Director of the Arts Council, and Pam Deller, Associate Publisher of Lehigh Valley Style. First up were John Thoder of the Allentown Area Swing Dance Society and Anne Episcopo of Alvin H. Butz, performing a competent jitterbug/smooth lindy. They had met previously for six rehearsals. My comments ran something like:

Martha Graham said it takes ten years to make a dancer. The good news is that nothing just happened here that 9 years and 11 months more couldn't solve. [boos] But you looked great, Anne, and while you often wore a smile as a facade, I appreciated all of the funny faces John made at you that helped the real smile break through.

Next came Eric Feinstein of Repertory Dance Theatre and student Betsy Harting of Olympus America doing the waltz. They admitted to only rehearsing three times including the dress rehearsal, but they pulled off an elegant performance thanks to Betsy's previous dance training on the very Cedar Crest College stage where they performed. (Way previous, she added.)

You set a difficult challenge by picking such slow music, which demanded that you luxuriate to fill every count—instead, you sometimes hit a pose on "one" and simply held. But there were some moments of real tenderness in this performance, and I dare say we watched you fall in love--and if we didn't, don't tell us!

Up last were HALA (Hispanic American League of Artists) dance instructor Aja Jefferson with student Joe Owens, editor of the Express-Times, performing the merengue/salsa. It wasn't just the beat that energized the stage, but the, er, enthusiasm of the dancers as well. It was enough for the couple to win the competition. Watch their performance to see for yourself. Video of the runners up is also available, so check these out and share in the fun (video clips thanks to Pennlive.com). My comments to Aja and Joe are on the video: I'm the back-lit wraith at the center of the judges' panel. 

Your styles were disparate yet complementary, with Aja's energy all horizontal and round and Joe's all vertical and jittery. So jittery, in fact, that I think it would have been fun to see Joe perform the jitterbug with John. Peter's assessment: Hot, hot, hot!

After the competition, the audience was invited onto the stage for a salsa lesson taught by Aja. It was a most enjoyable evening, a lot of laughs, and due to the participation component, the best idea Randall has ever had for the annual Lehigh Valley Arts Council member reception. Thank you to the organizers, the contestants, and my fellow judges for making it so much fun. 

Write Stuff 2008: A writer is born

Ever since getting involved with the Greater Lehigh Valley Writers Group in 2001, I have volunteered to help out with their annual Write Stuff  conference in one capacity or another. I love the energy of this event. It's just big enough to attract great presenting authors, and just small enough so that you can build relationships with other attendees. Each year, my favorite part of the conference is watching the conferees arrive—so many familiar faces, eager to learn of the riches the weekend will hold for them.

A highlight in the sea of this year's faces was Fritz, a client of my editing business, writing-partner.com. I met Fritz, a man I'd guess was nearing retirement age, a year ago when he attended one of my library talks. (The library talks are a pre-conference series I'd designed in 2005, when funding cuts to Pennsylvania's libraries had put a damper on their ability to offer special programs. I figured our writers could offer area libraries a variety of free programs on topics related to the publication process while promoting our organization and the Write Stuff conference.) Fritz was not a writer—he was a man with an amazing story to tell whose memoir was being assembled by someone else. 

I left that talk with the first 50 pages of his story tucked under my arm, a check in my pocket, and a request to assess its commercial potential. Encouraged by my enthusiasm and his budding knowledge of the publishing world, this year he attended several talks—including one I gave at the Boyertown Community Library, "Polish Your Writing for Publication: 13 Self-Editing Tips & Tricks." Riveting title right? One only a writer could love.

The next time I saw Fritz was seven weeks later, at the Write Stuff conference.

"Kathryn," he called out, his face lit up like an amusement park ride. "I have to tell you—I am having so much fun writing! I've gone through my manuscript and applied all of the self-editing tips you shared with us and—well—it's like magic! Suddenly, it reads so much better!"

It was a real kick for me to see my enthusiasm for the self-editing process mirrored in his face. I do find satisfaction in first draft work—how could I not, when a big batch of words now covers pages that were previously blank? But to me, the true excitement of writing comes in shaping subsequent drafts, when through careful weaving of word choice and syntax and rhythm and punctuation and the voice that results from these variables, the prose gains enough strength to carry the story that had been hidden within.

Fritz has discovered that love of craft. And in doing so, a writer is born.

2008 Central PA Writing Contest: "almost"?

Something magical always happens when I congregate with other writers. That's why, earlier this week, I drove to York College to pick up my honorable mention from Central PA magazine's 2008 Writing Contest. Whether to go was no easy decision: four hours round-trip is a long time to travel for punch, crudites and stuffed mushrooms. After all, I hadn't won one of the top three cash prizes. Should I even bother?

All things ecological and economic considered, it made most sense to let them mail me my certificate. But... what magic might I miss out on? I decided to go.

And I'm so glad I did. At the reception preceding the awards, the other honorees and I introduced ourselves by asking, "Which one did you write?" Often, the answer would be followed by a second question: "Remind me again, what was it about?" That led to the first of three valuable lessons.

Lesson #1: It pays to choose an evocative title. As in, a title that evokes the specific story content, not theme, of your piece. As it turned out, my piece, "The Boys, Harry Potter and Me"  earned instant recognition: I never once had to remind someone what it was about.

Lesson #2: Contest decisions are made by committee, so if you are at the top of the crop, someone liked your piece very much. The senior editor at the magazine told me that one of the other editors responsible for selecting the top ten finalists (York college professors were entrusted with choosing the three cash winners) liked my memoir piece the best, even though fiction typically wins. That sorta kinda almost means something, I think. Maybe.

Lesson #3: Meeting your readers offers the possibility for writing's biggest reward. And here I'm not talking about publication, or a certificate that could be ruined in a mad dash through a rainstorm, or $200 that would be here today and gone tomorrow. I'm talking about something more permanent: learning that you have touched a reader's heart.

One of the other contestants, a young mother of two, told me that the moment she finished reading my entry online she called to her husband in the next room, saying, "You have to read this." He told me he was moved by it, too. That's cool, right? But then she quoted a line that she'd found poignant, and her choice surprised and delighted me: "When had they become men?" She hoped that down the road, once she became a mother distracted by the multiple responsibilities of raising teens, she too would remain aware of all of the miracles of change in her children.

But then I earned my real prize. She said, "My children are a little too young to start reading them the Harry Potter series. But when I do, I won't be able to begin without thinking of you and your boys."

I'm a big advocate of payment for artists, and I need to make a living just like anyone else. I will try to re-sell this piece. As many writers realize, however, there are easier ways to make money. But an effective story can be an indelible way of touching a stranger's life. And for me, banking such memories creates an account that even a recession can't touch.

Philadelphia Writers' Conference Free Forum

On Sunday I spoke at one of the Free Forums leading up to the 60th anniversary Philadelphia Writers Conference. That's me on the right, standing with Forums coordinator Sean Toner, in a photo taken by his wife Robin. To me, this picture captures the magic of the event, held in the A.J. Drexel Picture Gallery in Drexel University's Main Building: 60 eager writers hoping to learn what they could to boost their craft, large historical figures standing mute on the walls, and Sean and I in the middle.

I was speaking on one of my favorite topics, "Those Critical First Pages." My writing friends already know this: I am a "first page junkie." While raising my sons, I would spend an odd half-hour between dropping one at soccer and picking up the other from Tae Kwon Do by ducking into my local library and reading as many first pages as I could. If the lead hooked me, I'd analyze why. If not, I'd try to figure out what stood between me and my interest in the story. Developing a talk for other writers on the topic was a natural for me. I've already given this talk several times, but Sunday's was the largest and most enthusiastic audience.

Maybe they could feel the energy as I did—that crackle in the air when people come together to pursue a passion. The figures on the wall stood in for authors published long before us, from whose words we can learn. The audience represented the next crop of writers, struggling to commit ideas and events to the page so that they, too, might leave a legacy. Sean, as presenter, and I, as speaker, stood in the middle, passing the torch of knowledge from one generation to the next. I like the fact that in this picture his white cane took on the glow of a lightsaber, as if such knowledge could banish the darkness of doubt and rejection from writers' lives.

But of course it can't. We need the darkness, it is part of the process of sinking deep within to find our truth. We need the rejection, too. It is the manifestation of the glorious fact that we humans are complex creatures with different likes and dislikes, and that this variety of taste keeps all aspects of our world—including publishing—in balance.

But knowledge can light our way back out of the darkness, and our published heroes can inspire us to transcend rejection. What Sean doesn't know: I keep an Obi-Wan Kenobi action figure beside me on my computer desk, complete with lightsaber. He represents the wisdom of the ones who came before. More than once I have picked him up to whisper in his ear: "Obi-Wan Kenobi, you're my only hope."

So thank you, Sean, for letting me play a part in a program that allows me to feel plugged in to such a time-honored tradition in the arts. May the force be with us all.

And so it begins...

I have always trailed at least a good three years behind the cutting edge. I first noticed this in tenth grade when, finally convinced that clogs were here to stay, I purchased my first pair. I still remember the day in chemistry class when I walked from the back of the quiet room up to Mrs. Lems' desk to hand in my test paper. No one was still wearing clogs, the trend-savvy had moved on to wedged heels, and I remember the way one pair of eyes after another looked up from their papers to see what horse was clip-clopping down the aisle between the lab tables. (Since my feet had been growing steadily, I had bought them a little large—you know, to extend their usefulness—so the wood made a particularly resonant rap against the tile floor.) My narrow feet stopped growing and never got used to them; I threw them away after only a month or two of flopping around.

Let's hope I do better with this blog.

I have feared that writing a blog posed a potential drain on my creative energy, and I didn't want to usurp precious writing and editing hours by reading the blogs of others, either. So I held out against blogging until it became something of a public relations mandate for a writer. (Or maybe that happened three years ago.)

Thus the title. Yes, it is blatant self-promotion for the novel I am trying to find representation for, THE GIRL WHO FELL FROM THE SKY, but it is also a reference to wisdom hard-won in my life: if you fail to move forward with the times, you become a stationary target for large ideas falling from above.

Now that I sit down to my first blog entry, so many ideas crowd my mind that I must admonish them to wait in line without screaming; I look forward to setting them down in this space in an orderly fashion. The same thing happened with the life-changing practice of journaling: never thinking I'd have much to say, I waited until I was 38 to begin. Much to my surprise, though, words spilled from my pen until my cramped hand had to put an end to the first entry.

Guess I'm just one of those writers who needs the pressure to build up inside before she can clog. I mean blog.