The Red Shooter Hat

see? i identify with this. 

I don't know why, but when I read a classic book I usually seem to get hold of it by the wrong end. I don't go to misinterpret or to catch a different meaning than everyone else, but somehow I do. When I read, I let the story carry me. I let go of analysis until I have finished the book. Its effect on me usually remains to be seen until the final pages are gone. I don't know how to analyze as I go. And even if I did, I think I would get caught in the current of the story and forget to. When I was younger I used to grow frustrated that I couldn't foresee the solution of a mystery when my brother, bless his soul, could guess in three pages who had done it and how, and possibly in which room. Then I grew older, and it frustrated me (and still frustrates me) that I seem to interpret books differently than the official analysis. Take, Go Set a Watchman by Harper Lee. That book made critics throw back their heads and howl with pain as Lee allegedly ripped the character of Atticus as we know him, to shreds. When I read the book I was disappointed in Atticus, yet Lee had built her characters and story-world well enough that the shift in conviction didn't exactly ruin Atticus for me. It made him even more real...because he has a (very large) flaw that one didn't see in To Kill a Mockingbird but that one could believe given his age and times. There is an argument to be made for the idea that Harper Lee didn't intend the version of Atticus seen in Go Set a Watchman to be the Atticus the world knew because, after all, she published TKAM and Atticus mightn't yet have been in his final form in its prequel. There is that argument (I spent some time this weekend arguing the point with the aforementioned brother) and that is a topic for another post. But the fact remains that I didn't react the way the majority of the public reacted to Go Set A Watchman.

Likewise, upon strength of recommendation from a friend, I dived into J.D. Salinger's work this week. He is best known, I believe, for The Catcher in The Rye. I've read that and am now halfway through Franny & Zooey. Since I entered Catcher not knowing anything about it, really, except that it was generally regarded as something People Should Read, I had no preconceived notions about what it would or would not be. My initial reaction was that Salinger is a darn good wordsmith. The best way I can describe the way his writing effects me is that it feels like soda bubbles up one's nose. It's unexpected and fresh and totally different than most anything else I've ever read. My second reaction was that I, too, could write like Salinger if I replaced all my adjectives with swearing. My third reaction was that Catcher's main character, Holden Caulfield, was a boy who'd grown up too fast. His morals are questionable at every turn, but his heart is gold. I know that sounds like an anomaly. Perhaps it is. But what I saw in the character was a boy who has rushed headlong into the world and its many pleasures and yet finds himself confused by the hollow chaos and unsure how to handle how he feels about it. He is kind-hearted. He is smart. He is empty. He is generous. He has known tragedy and he has known happiness, in some small way. The kid's winded, that's for sure. He's going to kill himself presently if he doesn't get a grip, but I had a soft spot for Holden Caulfield.

Thus ran my mind as I closed The Catcher in The Rye and totted the name on my List of Books Read in 2016. Later on I looked up the book online to see what the GP (General Populace) thought of it and found that, apparently, I took away the wrong takeaway from the novel. It is reputed to be a manifesto of teen rebellion; the most censored book of the baby boomers' era; the mental ramblings of an obsessed kid; an inspiration for several shooters, including John Lennon's killer. And I swear to you most earnestly, I can't figure out why on my own. Once I looked up a couple articles, of course, I saw what they meant...if you're an over-thinker and like to overthink things. I mean, if you want to think hard enough about a grape, I guess you can decide it's a raisin and you wouldn't be wrong. You'd just be scrutinizing it past the point of good sense. Or maybe my difficulty is that I don't scrutinize much at all. I'm perfectly happy, if it's a good story, to take the story at face value. I like discussing deep things and ulterior motives and various interpretations, but I'm what Shakespeare would call a "pleasant-spirited lady" and I don't like assigning sketchy backstory to people helter-skelter. I'm more than willing to believe you are what you appear to be, until you give me a reason to think otherwise. I mean, take Holden Caulfield. Yeah, he's an emotionally unstable person given to hyperbole, but you don't exactly go around asking people if they're mad, do you? My problem is that characters become very real to me and I treat them, subconsciously, as if they were real acquaintances. I can imagine my friendship with Holden Caulfield going this way:

Me: "Hello, I'm Rachel."

H.C.: "What're you *%#% introducing yourself to me for?"

Me: "Oh, I thought you looked lonely. It's a little cold out here. Want to step inside?"

H.C. looks at me and shrugs.

Me: "Let's go."

We step inside, camera shifts, H.C. shudders some rain off his coat.

Me: "That's a dashing hat. Very red."

H.C.: "Why the &$#@$@ does everyone comment on my hat? Isn't a fella allowed to wear a $%#$3 hat every once in a while if he wants to?"

Me: "Well, it's a very nice hat."

H.C. begrudgingly: "Gee, thanks."

I'd come away thinking that H.C. was a bit of a crab, had a great many peculiarities, but was probably a fairly nice person on the whole. I wouldn't sit there and psychoanalyze him and start getting a pathological fear of people who wear red deerstalker hats and try not to go home so they won't get into trouble with their parents for flunking out of yet another school. I mean, don't get me wrong: Holden Caulfield has problems. But I think I'm the one about to develop a paranoia of letting madmen go undetected. The really disturbing part is when, like with the quote above, I identify with the supposedly nut-so character in question.

I hate the fact that I don't pick up on subtle cues in literature. I'm not a great one for symbolism. I like people to say what they mean but I don't mind if it has two or three meanings. I like complexity. But I'm also not going to assume that when you put a character in a red hat he bought in New York City, that he needs a psychiatrist. I mean, give a man a sartorial break. At any rate, this is why I don't do book reviews on my blog; I always seem to come away with quite a different impression than the author intended and I'm not sure what that says about me. So now I want to open up a discussion and ask you: are you one of the dedicated G.P. that foresee the psychological conclusion of a character like Holden Caulfield or are you more like me: a woman a bit shy to clap the shackles of a sanitarium on a person who hasn't proved himself in any concrete way to be a total loony? 

you are no stranger to me

Here are some visual, verbal, and audible pieces of inspiration for the untitled short-story I mentioned last week. I hope you'll enjoy browsing what amounts to my current "mind palace." I'm working on this story as often as I can and though it's a paltry showing yet, I'm finding my way all right yet. I jokingly teased that the writing sector of my brain is like a mother hamster, eating its young when it gets startled. So I'm going to not speak an awful lot of this story for fear of saying all I have to say on the blog rather than in the word document. So apologies for being vague. This is how I'm rolling this tine around.

"upon seeing you"

I thought it unlikely to meet
a stranger and know
him for my own.
Before words
or look
or laugh
or smile;
before you I recognized it:
yours was a soul my soul
knew well and
the sweet click of the
latch behind kept us
in the thoroughfare.
Should we go
together?
Do we part here?
Home - safe home -
is gone for now
you are no stranger to me.
And so I smile
and hope
you know the way
because I'm lost already.

"Sweet Serendipity" - Lee DeWyze

"Fall in Love" - Peter Hollens

"Destino" - Walt Disney & Salvador Dali

Eleven on the Eiffel Tower

Hey, Guys! Last Monday I was not at all in town (Tampa is a beautiful place to spend a March Monday), and this Monday I'm late with the post, but I'm definitely posting, so that's something. I did a lot of talking-about-books in Tampa. The friends with whom I stayed are the sort of people who have read widely, who laugh at my affinity for the 19th Century British Novel, and who are able to suggest improvements to my course of reading. I've been told to read Crime And Punishment as soon as possible and to follow it up with some J.D. Salinger ("All of Salinger is great - he only published four books."). While in Tampa, I had the chance to go to Oxford Exchange - probably the most pretentiously-hipster place I ever hope to set foot in. There was, of course, an entire section devoted to books and I did, of course, have to buy at least one. I chose a creative's travel-guide to London in preparation for my trip next year and a newish French novel - The Red Notebook by Antoine Laurain. I'm not saying the latter choice was the most groundbreaking literature ever written (it was a simple, sweet, predictable, very enjoyable story), but I loved it. Sometimes, you know, you just want a book that does exactly what you hope it will do. The Red Notebook did that. I got so lost in the book that I momentarily forgot I was in Florida at all and had to blink round for a moment or two before I realized where I was.

Perhaps my favorite part of Oxford Exchange was when I checked out at the desk with the preppy fellow in glasses. He slipped the titles across the desk to himself, palm down. His mouth quirked in a smile as he read the titles.
"London...and Paris....which will it be?"
I laughed. "Going to London next year."
"But why not go to Paris too? I mean, you're already over there." He announced my total and leaned on the counter. "You can take the tunnel or something."
I couldn't not let my cracking-grin out. "Have you been?"
"Yeah. When I was twelve. I wish I remembered more of it. I'm sorry I can't give you recommendations."
"That's all right. I want to go to the Eiffel Tower at eleven o'clock at night." I don't know why I told him that, but it wanted to be announced."
He grinned. "Yeah? Why eleven o'clock?"
"Oh, I don't know. I think it'd be prettiest then. The city might be a little quiet. The lights would all be out. I might have it more to myself."
He tossed his head and laughed. "I bet everyone has that idea."
"Yeah, probably."
"Well, hey, eleven o'clock's all right, but you don't want to be out in Paris after midnight. They say strange things start to happen."
"Is that so?" My mind swirled around and caught hold of his reference, tugging me back to the surface. "Right - well, I think I'll be all right as long as I don't get into any old cars with dead authors."
He beamed. "Exactly - you know, the movie?"
"Yeah! Midnight in Paris." I mentally blessed that random film choice on a Russian airline and turned to leave. "Have a great day."
"You too! Enjoy London and Paris!"

Another bright book-realm moment of the trip was talking home-libraries with one brother and seeing the personal library of the other. So many beautiful hard-bound editions. Such a wealth of knowledge in one location. Do you ever feel like that? Like if you could just make it through the entirety of the shelves (even of one small personal library) you'd be about twice as smart as you currently are? I do constantly. And it's a hopeful thing, you know, because there's always a chance you'll stumble upon some stroke of genius in a yet-unread book.

I've also been inspired recently by something I'm hoping to turn into at least a piece of flash-fiction if not a short story. If I'm really ambitious it could make it into a novella sized story, but we'll see. For now, know that I'm reading Henry V cozily, thumbing again through Chesterton's Orthodoxy as I feel like it, and putting Crime And Punishment on hold at the library. Ho for expanding one's mind!

What are you reading, and do you have any recommendations for really good modern fiction?

Cliches I Wish I Had

Writers. We're such a strange set. We're such a cool set. I don't much like the stereotypes surrounding writers and their lives. We aren't all recluses - we can't afford to be. One has to actually socialize these days in order to have any sort of following. But there are some stereotypes that I wish I could fit in because, let's face it, the traditional writer (which I'm not) is a pretty cool creature. That being said, I wish I could...

...live in a coffee shop

Looking at my flash fiction, you might think I live at a coffee shop, but that's not true. I would love to be a regular. I would love to have a well-worn corner at the bar and a barista who knew my name and slid a fresh latte toward my laptop because he knew by the knitting of my brow and the pricking of my thumbs that I wasn't feeling the whole editing thing today.

...sit on a white bed with perfectly shaved legs effortlessly balancing a laptop

Confession: I think sitting with your laptop anywhere near your actual lap is cause for ovarian cancer or something. At any rate, I'm sure it's not good for you. Also, who really wants to sit in bed all day? Also, whose feet don't fall asleep, like, right away after sitting Indian-style for more than five minutes? But you have to admit - it looks pretty darn cosmopolitan.

...survive off coffee alone

Coffee is so low calorie, I almost wish I could be one of those writers who gets so absorbed in their work that they can't stop for food. That's how those girls keep so slim. #coffeeislife...I'm sorry, but I'm the opposite. If I'm even remotely hungry, I get the worst hankering to A) stop for a snack B) eat all the chocolate, ever, in the whole world C) browse Instagram ad infinitum. I love coffee...but I also love muffins, toast, Chex Mix, pink lady apples, tangerines, trail mix, chocolate chips, granola, and many other things it's possible to love more than coffee.

...willingly shut out social life

We've discussed before how this aspect of my personality one hundred percent shoots me in the Achille's heel. It's almost impossible for me to choose writing time over people-time and that's why I'm sitting here writing a humorous blog post instead of sharing snippets of all the work (snark) I've gotten done recently. Of any writer stereotype, this one is the one I would give my left hand for. Not my right arm...I need that for writing, when I get around to it.

...achieve the perfect messy bun + bangs

You'd think after all these years I would be able to get this one right. That perfect top-knot that every college sorority girl knows how to do. I just can't. I can coil my hair into a sort of tea-pot handle and stab a pen through it, but that's about all. Rest in peace, hopes for the iconic writer-girl hairstyle. You just weren't meant to be.

....have so much plot it's bursting from my ears

This goes right up next to willingly shutting out social life. How people are overwhelmed with plot is beyond me. I am overwhelmed with atmosphere and characters and setting and clever sentences but plot comes to me only after blood sacrifices. Sheesh. Give girl a break, Plot, for heaven's sake!

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What are some stereotypes you'd like to be afflicted with?

P.S. Good luck to those of you who entered Rooglewood Press's Five Magic Spindles contest! I can't wait to see the winners' names tomorrow. 

In Memory of Harper Lee

Most of you (all of you) have heard that Harper Lee, author of To Kill a Mockingbird, died last week. I almost said "beloved author" but that isn't exactly true. It would be truer to say that her book was beloved, because Lee preferred to stay out of it almost entirely. Only rarely would Lee submit to an interview, and even then she preferred to be selective in what she showed of herself. I don't fault her for that - I think by the sheer fact that she gave us so little of herself and, really, so little of her talents, makes what we do have that much more precious. For so long we only had To Kill a Mockingbird. Recently added to that is Go Set a Watchman. I've read the former many times. I enjoyed the latter. At times like these, I wonder: how did Harper Lee manage to do what she did in her debut novel? Atticus Finch...I mean honestly. Can you imagine a fuller, more admirable, richer character than that? I can't. I love the world of Maycomb. It's tiny and limited and specific. It could be everywhere but it can't just be anywhere. It's the American South and Harper Lee wrote about it as only a true American Southerner could.
I don't read much "modern" American fiction, actually. My earliest diet was the classic set written in the eighteen-hundreds. You know, the usual Anne of Green Gables, all of Louisa May Alcott, and so forth. From there I jumped to Lewis and Tolkien, bashed through half of Dickens' novels, and took three tries (and, finally, success) fording through Les Miserables. The Brontes, Austen, Gaskell, and Sir Walter Scott have each had their share of space on my shelves. Wodehouse, Henry James, Dorothy Sayers, and James Herriot have had their say. I'm the veritable property of the Brits and pre-modernity Americans at this point. So to say that I'm well-versed in American fiction would be a straight-forward lie. I don't pretend to be up on my American fiction. I don't think you have to be up on your American fiction to appreciate what Harper Lee did with To Kill a Mockingbird. If writers only improve with time and practice, I'm sorry Lee didn't write more. Almost sorry, though. Because if she was going to be a one-shot wonder, she used her chance well. She gave Americans a novel to conjure with, and influenced so many, many people with her story. What more could you want as a writer?

I hope you'll all join me in remembering Harper Lee and the fine legacy she left American fiction. If you'd like, leave your favorite To Kill A Mockingbird or Go Set a Watchman quote in the comments below as a little memorial to the author who left us Atticus, Scout, Jem, Dill, Calpurnia, and the rest. Rest in peace, Harper Lee.

Lyrics: Manhattan

I have recently taken to copying down lyrics to songs I love and really taking the time to relish the words and their meanings. Sometimes I come across a song I love and though I don't identify with the exact scenario laid out in the song's story, I treasure it all the same. Maybe it's the words themselves or the way they sound when combined with the music. Maybe it's just the fact that somewhere deep inside, I know I could feel this way, or that I have felt this way; the details are just different. Regardless of the real explanation, I love the power of music to sway and gentle me or rev me up. A couple weeks ago when we got #Jonas2016 and were buried under days of winter weather, “Manhattan” by Sara Bareilles kept me company as the perfect, wistful, snow-day song. Enjoy.

"Manhattan"

by Sara Bareilles

You can have Manhattan

I know it's for the best

I'll gather up the avenues

And leave them on your doorstep

And I'll tip toe away

So you won't have to say

You heard me leave

You can have Manhattan

I know it's what you want

The bustle and the buildings

The weather in the fall

And I'll bow out of place

To save you some space

For somebody new

You can have Manhattan

Cause I can't have you

Ahhhhh

You can have Manhattan

The one we used to share

The one where we were laughing

And drunk on just being there

Hang on to the reverie

Could you do that for me?

Cause I'm just too sad to

You can have Manhattan

Cause I can't have you

And so it goes

One foot after the other

Til black and white begin to color in

And I know

That holding us in place

Is simply fear of what's already changed

Ahhhhh

You can have Manhattan

I'll settle for the beach

And sunsets facing westward

With sand beneath my feet

I'll wish this away

Dismissing the days

When I was one half of two

You can have Manhattan

Cause I can't have you

Weaver Birds Aren't My Area of Expertise

Just a bit of writing I did for fun. I feel like I hit my best stride when writing fiction for children, even though I've never pursued that avenue farther than "just for fun." I've been pecking away at this the past few days as the mood strikes me and I figured I would share it with you to help you, in turn, pass the time. Happy Monday, darlings!

An Untitled Story (With Birds)

by Rachel Heffington

“The world, my dear, is very full of things you shouldn't touch.” Miss Crust's voice curled back on itself, purring. She pulled her crotchety old fingers through Maribelle's hair.

“Ow!” Maribelle yowled. She didn't think Miss Crust pulled her hair on purpose, but she certainly didn't not pull it on purpose. That was the point on which Maribelle took issue with her nurse.

“Is it my fault if you got half a jar of molasses stuck in it? Your hair's more tangled than a weaver-bird's nest.”

Maribelle wouldn't know. Weaver birds weren't her area of expertise, though they were her father's and Miss Crust's. Her father and Miss Crust were very well-known ornithologists – bird people. They were the sort of important people other important people came to if they had questions about puffin migration (“Do puffins migrate?”) or parrot-speech (“Just how many words can the average parrot learn in its lifetime?”) or the habits of displaced bluebirds. How Miss Crust went from studying birds to untangling Maribelle's hair, Maribelle didn't know. She wasn't quite sure where her father had picked up Miss Crust. Miss Crust just had always been. Maribelle couldn't remember a time when Miss Crust hadn't been part of life at 34 Bleaking Street. In her earliest memories there was sunlight, plenty of dust-motes swirling glitter-like through the beams, and Miss Crust. Funny enough, there was never a memory of a mother. Just Miss Crust, Assisting. She was very good at Assistance – Assisting Father with bird-work and Maribelle with tangled hair and grammar-work and stains on the fronts of her dresses. Sometimes Maribelle thought she might like to do with a bit less Assistance. Maybe only on Tuesdays, because Tuesdays generally weren't the best day of the week. Miss Crust could be on-call the rest of the time and only Assist when Maribelle really wanted her.

“What happened to my mother?” Maribelle asked suddenly. Miss Crust's finger twitched through Maribelle's hair, not in a surprised way but in a “Dear heavens, this again?” way.

“Died,” Miss Crust answered.

“From what?” Of course she knew – galloping consumption – but it was needful to hear it again, just to remind her that there had been a mother once upon a time. It bothered Maribelle sometimes, how often she nearly forgot most kids had two parents.

Here it came -

“Galloping consumption,” Miss Crust said.

There it was.

“Now you,” she pulled Maribelle upright off the stool and smacked her bottom, “get downstairs. Your father wants to speak with you before he leaves.”

Glad to be free of the dreadful hairbrush, Maribelle skibbled out the nursery door and wandered down their great big staircase, pausing on her favorite steps as she went. Her favorite steps were as follows:

twentieth,

sixteenth,

eighth.

The reasons why were these:

The twentieth was the step at the landing with a peculiar, round window looking out onto a bit of scrappy yard and a trashcan that always had a cat of some color turned upside down, fishing for something inside it.

The sixteenth step was exactly halfway which, as anyone can tell you, is a special place.

And the eighth step was the step whereupon Maribelle's front teeth had been knocked out when she tripped on it two years ago. There had been no other six year old girls missing both their front teeth that year so though it had given her a bit of lisp, Maribelle thought the distinction quite worth the trouble of pronouncing “stork,” “sausage,” and other like words.

Maribelle tromped into Father's study without knocking. She never knocked, on principle. People seemed to stop doing interesting things when you knocked first. It was much more gratifying to throw open a door and see someone look like they'd seen a ghost. Maybe you'd see where they hid those scrumptious chocolates, or maybe you'd hear things they wouldn't otherwise have told a little girl. And Maribelle did very much like to know. Knowing was probably the thing she liked most in the world, besides maybe chocolate ice cream and splashing in puddles barefoot when she ought to have worn boots.

Father sat at his desk, balding head between his bird-claw hands. He looked up as she came in. Pale gray daylight flashed at her off the little round lenses of his glasses.

“Hi,” Maribelle offered.

“Oh. Hello, Maribelle.”

“Miss Crust said you wanted me?”

Father perked up a little and ran his fingers through his hair. Two grayish-black puffs of it stuck out on either side of his head and made him look like a ruffled owl. The top of his head was utterly bald. “Just so, my dearling.”

When he put out his hand, she walked to him and settled her little palm in his bigger one. Hot. Dry. Shaky. That was Father's hand. Not liking to keep hers there very long, Maribelle gave Father a quick smile and put her hand in her pocket where he wouldn't think to ask for it again.

“Been studyin' birds?” she inquired.

“Oh, hrm. Birds, birds. Is there anything like birds in the world?” Father's lenses flashed again and his smile was a little less hampered than usual. He did so like birds.

Maribelle wanted to help him in any way she could to not seem so picked-over and trembly. “Well, Miss Crust says there was a sort of dinosaur way back in the dinosaur-days that flew like a bird.” It mightn't help much but Father might find it interesting, and that would at least distract him from whatever it was he worried over.

“Oh, ha!” Father chortled. “Ha! Ha!”

Like a jay, Maribelle thought. Crisp and short and unaccustomed. She liked to think of Father as all sorts of birds. He laughed like a jay and looked like an owl. He walked like a heron and spoke like a wren in terse, tentative chirps. She liked to watch him and he liked to watch birds. It helped to pass the time in the few months of the year when they weren't bopping around the Congo or Peru or someplace.