Mrs. Fitz's Story Emporium

There are many reasons folks don’t write. Lack of talent isn’t one of them.

Format training is. Not always, but sometimes.

Format training varies, but one that most of us have met is the essay-question format. The word “ESSAY” literally translates to “exert power,” which is nifty. I just haven’t met too many who associate exerting power with answering an essay question.

It isn’t that making a statement, supporting the statement, then concluding is bad. It isn’t that we all come naturally equipped with better ways to express thoughts. It’s just that essay questions tend to have expectations. When somebody TELLS you what to write about, the creative imp rebels, hides in corners and generally refuses to come out; or does so in a crabby and stiffy manner.

If you need to coax your inner elf out, try this:

1. Read the essay question twice, then argue with the question. Write that.
2. Assume the asker of the essay question is someone you want to impress, like God or Walter Payton.
3. Listen to any music you love, really love. Listen for the essay-ness of the music. Music IS essay at its best. Most lyrics make a statement, support the statement and conclude. This just might give you a little more patience with essay writing.

Folks don’t write for many reasons. Lack of talent isn’t one of them.

Approval is. It must be human to seek approval, else why would we seek it? However, writing isn’t approvable. It’s renegade and messy and formless in its soul, which is why we are attracted.

I’ve heard advice about silencing your inner critic, which is impossible; getting into your zone, which is unpredictable; and all manner of exercises to get the ole muse movin’ along, which I would find insulting, if I were a muse.

It isn’t a matter of NOT seeking approval. It’s a matter of acknowledging seeking approval is a big part of it. So is knowing you never will obtain it.

So, write anyway.

Some things done are difficult to undo.

I learned this during a 1963 snowstorm in Elmhurst Il in the company of my brother Mark, seven years younger than me, and thus not liable in any way for the DO, which couldn’t be undone.

The snowman we embarked on building held promise of being our largest yet in the 5 odd winters we had been constructing them. This was a perfect storm, if packable, roll-able snow is your definition of perfect.

Little surpasses the joy you enjoy when a tiny snowball cooperates by getting bigger and bigger and then gets so big BOTH of you have to roll it and then it gets SO big you have to let it sit wherever it is when it’s TOO big to roll anymore, in this case the dead center of the driveway of our ranch house.

Being the elder I was cognizant of time’s passage and knew Dad would show up after work in a car it was safe to assume he planned to drive into his garage. Being the elder, I also noted our snowman base was embossed with lawn, like an ice cream ball rolled in green coconut. It was the infant sod Dad had put down some weeks back. It was the expensive infant sod Dad had put down some weeks back.

Being elder, I calmly assumed leadership by shouting “Dad is going to kill us! What are we going to do?!”

Mark assessed the trenches of bare earth where a backyard had been, the headless snowman taller than himself that obliterated the driveway, the pathetic grass sprouts dead before their time and says, “It’s okay. We’ll just UNROLL it.”

At Immaculate Conception high school during Elmhurst, Illinois’ aging 1960s, girls basketball provided a glimpse into tomorrowland, if you are optimistic by nature.

Then, the rules were just like boys’ basketball except for dribbling. Girls could take three steps. Three steps only until passing was mandatory.

Girls did this pretty well, I think, considering how hard it is to notice everybody around you once you have the ball, see the lane, eye the basket and just know in your soul you can make the shot. But you pass anyway.

This had a sound effect that’s hard to forget, maybe shouldn’t be forgot; that is the sound of sneakers screeching to a stop on a varnished court.

Sometimes, it might be that screeching to a halt is the very best thing you can do to win the game.

This is the abbreviated account of the parcel.

I placed an online order for a smallish product.

The day the parcel was scheduled to arrive, it did not.

I decided the seller was fraudulent. I decided the postal service was inept. I decided I should cool down and await further information.

10 days after the parcel was scheduled to arrive, it had not.

I decided to take the matter up with the seller, then the postal service. I decided to be very polite about the matter. I obtained further information, information which indicated nobody on the planet had any idea where the parcel had gone off to.

Thus, I determined it prudent to affirm my initial assumption. The seller was fraudulent. The postal service was inept. I wasn’t exactly thrilled to be right but right I was.

The next day the parcel arrived and this shot my confidence in myself to bits.

I can’t figure out if dialects and accents that differentiate us from each other are good or bad.

I know some folks take lessons to lose their accent so they can be accepted on some level, say into a broadcasting career or into a group who all share a particular or peculiar way of speaking.

Is this a sad commentary on our capacity to accept the diverse or is this a way to share better with each other?

Is this a trouble to consider or a difference to celebrate?

Is this something that a deaf person has little understanding about or would a deaf person think that’s a dumb question?