Sutterwriters

What do Sutterwriters do?
by Joanna Luce

- Learn to write from a prompt with only ten minutes to write. There is not time to write what we think only our reactions to the prompt. More often than not our reactions reveal more of the truth than if we are given time to think about what we want to say.

- Sutterwriters has given me a voice. It is often said that the eyes are the windows to the soul. I have recently developed the thought that an individual's writing must be the door.

- When we write we are free to read what we have written if we are comfortable doing so. Only the piece is analyzed not the writer. I believe it is always without unkind judgments yet there have been times when I have not liked what is said about my writing. There is that door...

- Why do I not like what is said? Is it because what is said is the truth? Or is it because what the person with the comment sees, some form of them self in what you have written and it has struck a chord?

- Not all writing comes easily. For a "homework" assignment in a past workshop we were given, "I know..." The assignment was simple in that all you do is write "I know..." and then what ever your truth is that you know. However, I struggled with this assignment for almost a year. It was not until a lengthy conversation with my physician that I was able to write the piece--two pages in twenty minutes. Writing the piece was like a dam break with no way to hold the flow of thoughts back. When I finished there was a great sense of calmness.

- Not all writing prompts will work for you. There you have a choice. Seek your own or put the prompt away and try again another day.

- There will be times when what you have written will not make sense. It may be that at that moment you are not ready to hear what you have to say. Like putting the prompt away and leaving it for another time, put the piece away and when you read it the next time it then may make sense. You are ready to listen to what you have to say.

- For some workshops there have been groans of, "But I am not a writer..." Yes you are, because you have written your truth. What is bad about that?

- I have since learned that cancer was never my issue of real concern, but it kept in focus that something was very wrong--a greater issue that needed my attention. It had reached crisis proportion even though I had to be told that I was in trouble. Not everything warrants or needs to be explored in depth. At times let the writing be playful. It is a mental vacation that allows the mind to relax and the battery to recharge.

- A difficult lesson to learn is to not put words into your mouth. Do not lead the writing, but follow it. I guess that is what the "rules" are indirectly trying to say.

- In finding my voice I am learning to open up to myself, but more importantly I am opening up to others. I have been a patient with my physicians for ten years, but it has only been the last year that I have been able to talk to them, and feel that I can. They were not going anywhere. It was me that was the wanderer.

Stories
by Sally Watkins

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you” ~Maya Angelou

I have written for twenty years. In my garage is a big carton full of notebooks of every description—some pages with crayon and pen illustrations. I’ve told my stories to spirit, to God, to the empty white pages. As an introvert I’ve confided in my journals all manner of things too tender, too personal, too painful, or just too boringly redundant to share with another human. I save these books because sometimes I want to go back and discover where I came from, or when a new phase began to take shape, or sometimes because I want to relive again something big and important and find it as it felt originally—fresh and raw—not how I’ve remade it as my history.

Am I my story? I use to believe that I was the aggregate of these stories and to share myself with a new lover—to allow him to know me I would be compelled to tell the stories that shaped my life. But I am no longer my story. I agree with the fourteenth-century Sufi poet Hafiz who said, “I am a hole in a flute that the Christ’s breath moves through”. My stories do not trap me, no longer define me.

Mentor
by Paul Valentine

If asked two years ago who in my life was the mentor who meant the most, had the greater influence I would have mentioned a professor or two, John Phelan, a few others.

Then two years ago I started writing and realizing in ways I had not what a rich life experience I have had. I saw and more deeply appreciated the one who made the greater difference for me, my father. As most fathers, he had an adage or two, as-
"Don't lie,"
"Anything worth doing at all is worth doing well,"
"A tool out of place is a tool lost."

Aside from these there were very, very few "Do this…"or "Do that…" from Dad except for disciplinary reasons, of which there were many. His influence on me was not in the word but the way they, my mother and father, lived their lives. But Dad was the one. I have never had to wonder what integrity or honesty was. In later life I have met so many who had to learn those principles, often the "the hard way," because they had no role models, had never experienced them. I have seen them, experienced them aplenty with my father. I remember my teen-age amazement when he would return the nickels and dimes if he got too much change, or calling a waitress over to correct a bill even if the error was in his favor. I have never had to struggle to know the ethical thing, the right thing to do in most situations. Not that I have always done it, I usually have known what I should have done. That was so ingrained in me by my father that the right choice seems to reveal itself out of my being. When I have gone my own way I have learned several lessons the hard way myself. With Dad, he lived his life that way, no preaching, no moralizing. As the saying goes, "He just did it…"

Dad's care for me was so subtle, so giving I never understood it then. His love of books, reading, the arts in all its forms, plays, music, the opera at too young an age, endless exposure to the highest qualities of life. How many can remember so vividly hearing both Rachmaninoff and Paderewski in their lifetime? We did. Museums. Sports with annual trips to Dyche Stadium at Northwestern for a football game, Soldiers Field for the Bears and Wrigley Field for the Cubs, world-class ski jumping at the Norge Ski Club. Experiencing the wildness and beauty of nature fishing in Canadian waters. We did it all. And we were not wealthy. Rich, but not wealthy. To the contrary, very, very middle class. Out of the depression era, austerity and hard work did it all. Dad just did it. And tried to make sure I did too, often kicking and screaming along the way. He influenced my life, forever.

Turkey in the Straw

One bright summer day I saw the old man across the street shuffling half bent over, out of his wooden framed screen door. He was an odd man with whom I loved spending time. I can’t remember his name, but I will always remember playing in his yard. As usual I was curious to see what he was up to. I sat on the diconra lawn in my front yard to watch him as he shuffled past the rocking chair and footstool that he usually sat in during the day, watching everything in the neighborhood.

To my surprise, he didn’t sit down, so I slowly walked in his direction. He didn’t see me as he sat on the lawn, and then sprawled out in front of something that interested him. As I got closer, I realized it was a giant anthill, with the large red fire ants marching in and out of the earth like soldiers going to war. By this time the old man was on his belly, with his bristly-cheeked chin resting on his hands, elbows in the grass. He wore a plaid flannel shirt even though it was summer and grey work slacks held up by red and black suspenders. I plopped down next to him and asked him what he was doing. He responded with, “Killing ants”. “How do you do that?” “With grasshopper juice” he said as he spit the slimy load of dark brown chewing tobacco from over his chapped thin lips. Laying this close to him I noticed how yellow his teeth were, with brown pockets of chewing tobacco laced throughout his mouth and the dark spots on his arms and face and wondered how he got them. His stiff hair shot out in all directions. It was so wiry; it looked like he had never wielded a comb through it. I followed him around his yard, each time he would sit, then lay in front of another anthill and repeat the process, an organic form of pest control way before it’s time?

When he was finished with his anthill mission, I followed him to his front porch where he sat in his old wooden rocking chair that creaked back and forth. He pulled out his silver harmonica from his shirt pocket and started playing “Turkey in the Straw”. I loved listening to him play and wished I could have my own harmonica. He often asked me if I wanted to play his, but the brown spittle dripping from his stained lips was never appealing to me. He was so old he had to have someone take care of him and his house. Pearl Lovejoy was his caretaker and she loved the kids in the neighborhood to visit. Before he even finished Turkey in the Straw, Pearl had joined us with a plate of hot-from-the-oven peanut butter cookies and a glass of milk for me. She wore her auburn hair in a bun on the back of her head and peered over the gold-rimmed glasses that perched over her nose. She smelled of peanut butter and baby powder and always had a smile on her face. My younger brother Donnie saw us from across the field and came running. As he approached, he asked if he could drive the old man’s electric cart. He let us kids in the neighborhood drive it around his property. We would take turns being the flagman at the drag races and being the speed racer. The cookies caught Donnie’s attention before the old man could answer and he gladly took one from the plate Pearl held in front of him. She set the plate on the table and went for another glass of milk. I loved visiting that old man who lived across Cataba street. I can’t remember his name, but I'll never forget his essence.