Our perinnial chronicaler of family stories, Pat Stewart, honored her mother by submitting some anecdotes to the Greenville News for their Mother's Day feature, "Mother's Pearls of Wisdom."

We shared a time of discussion on the possibility of adding another meeting to our monthly schedule. Third Tuesday seems to be a front runner for day, but time and place are still to be decided. If you can't make the next meeting to join the discussion, you can pass along your preference by e-mail.

Summer's here and it's hotter than a firecracker, so pop over to The Open Book, Thursday, July 1st at 6:00 p.m. for our next meeting. It's a great way to celebrate the liberty of literature.

Kami Kinard read seven pieces of light verse, including "After you", a parrot poem with a punchline in each of the three stanzas. "Percussion Storm" was a favorite among folks present Thursday night. In it, she used choppy lines and strict rhythm to support her comparison of the sounds of a thunderstorm to the percussion of a symphony. "Drop" and "Stops" is a near rhyme. Some people are okay with near rhymes; some are distracted by it. It would not be hard to change it if you want the rhyme to be more exact.
Several folks agreed that it may also be wise to tighten up the rhythm of "YOYO", since there is a natural rhythm associated with the up and down motion of that toy. "Queen of the Mountains" was another favorite, with its humor deriving from the exaggerated importance of an everyday task: laundry. In that poem and the other humorous ones, the comic timing was right and the punchlines were emphasized by well-placed rhyme. In "The curse", the word "brain" was used twice in the first stanza. Is there a way around this? "Eagle" a great description of life from an eagle's perspective, and a good picture of contentment.
"Jill's Complaint" got big laughs from everyone. Kami, maybe you should record our laughter and send it along with the poem back to the folks at that lit mag who didn't know what was best for them.
All in all, it was a great selection. With a couple of minor tweaks in a few, all seven should be about ready for enjoyment by MILLIONS!

Visitor Sarah Efrid read us her poem, untitled at first. We gave her a suggested title of "Half Mast." It is a clever verse about a man who couldn't get his flag all the way up the pole. A neighbor saw the half-mast flag and thought he should have his at half-mast also. It goes on and on until "A nation was in mourning but the mobs did not know why." The group thought the second line needed work to get a good meter in that line.

Sarah has been with our group in the past and would be welcomed back to give us more of her writing. The poem had a somewhat prophetic note for me when I heard of Ronald Reagan's death a couple days later and all the flags now fly at Half-Mast.

Robin Prince Monroe read chapter three and part of chapter four of The Silent Glades, a novel for middle school students featuring several hearing-impaired children. Comments were generally positive and everyone wanted to know more. Several people expressed a desire to know more about Nick's feelings and his relationship with the world. He's hearing-impaired but it was not clear how he felt the power and vibration of the roaring engine.

In addition, the encounter with the croc was set up well, but the aftermath needs to be expanded. It is a dramatic moment and several people in the group felt that the scene could be developed better. For example, the danger that Chris was in could be pointed out more strongly. Several people pointed out that since Chris is hearing-impaired he needs to look at Sam when he is in the water. Whispering did not work. Sam has to be more vociferous. How else would Chris know what Sam is saying to him?

It was pointed out that Nick could not understand Sam's narrative by lip reading alone (on page 13) because of the excitement of Chris's encounter with the croc. It was suggested that Chris could fill Nick while Sam was talking or after he the episode was over. Perhaps Chris could show some emotion, such as physically shaking, as he signs.

There seemed to be a consensus that everyone wanted to know how the relationship between Chris and Mittie will develop. The group also wondered how the controversy between the "culture of the deaf" was going to play out against the new cochlear implants that give many hearing-impaired people the ability to hear. And, finally, all of us wanted to know how the tension between the hearing-impaired characters who use signing will develop with the characters who do not sign.

"Aunt Marie, AKA Rosie the Riveter"
by Pat Stewart

Pat's a natural storyteller and all agree her amazing family provides endless material. By intertwining her relative's stories and history, readers have the opportunity to ride their own personal time machine. Some suggestions for improving this already entertaining tale were to first, try starting it with the second paragraph. Then make the story more personal by making it just about Aunt Marie. Perhaps allude to the fact that Rosie was a Norman Rockwell figure, and last, make it clear that Aunt Marie wasn't the real Rosie. Keep at it Pat, we can't wait to see what relative is next!

"Oooh, the champ takes a right to the ribcage and a left to the jaw... That one staggered him, folks... The champ misses with a jab and takes a vicious pounding to the body! Oh! A terrific right has opened a cut over his eye! What's keeping him up? The champ goes into a clinch to cease the beating but what's this? Oooh! A series of kidney punches hammers his sides! Where's the ref?? Where's the ref!!!"
You know, there is an unspoken (and sometimes spoken) rule at the SCWW meetings. It's "say something positive about someone's work before bringing in the negative comments."
I watched Kevin Coyle get heavily pounded before anyone mentioned the excellent quality of his work. Perhaps no one understood Kevin's, as yet, hidden references or knew where his story was going, but that poor lad was gang-mugged before he could take a breath.
I have found SCWW to be a place where I can stick myself out on a limb as a writer and get some valuable feedback. We all like to try things and SCWW is a great place to "run it up the flagpole and see if anyone salutes." If we just wanted plaudits we wouldn't show up every month. We all want to improve our craft. Negative criticism is a reality, but that criticism should be constructive. Comments like "I just don't care for it" are useless.
A few constructive suggestions on Kevin's story "The Boys of Summer" were that some of his characters are nebulous, confusing and might stand to be pared back. Kevin's main characters, though, are good and the natural dialogue very skilled. He created clear tension and did a good job describing the setting but the group felt the story could use some smells, colors and sounds to enrich the visuals. The biggest complaint was that no one knows where the story is headed.
That's understandable. It's tough to read a story over a three month period and remember the nuances from the previous read. Any short literary work should be taken all in one dose and left to float around in your conscience for awhile, but waiting ninety days for a story to finish hinders its impact.
They don't come any more lowbrow than Fatz here, (I think Faulkner's a guy who coached the '64 Broncos) but I'd still like to read Kevin's piece in its entirety and let it sift through my mind for several days before developing an opinion - and then maybe give him a shot to the chops.

John Migacz gave us another chance to read more of his novel A Second Chance. Now that we are getting to know Jolly, the not-so-jovial main character, we had a lengthy debate about exactly how Jolly should sound. The group seemed to agree a 34 year old in an 8 year old's body needs a believable voice, but opinions varied on how John should marry the language of youth to the thoughts of a mature male. Suggestions for achieving this included experimenting with a first person narrative and giving Jolly a confidant, but we were divided as to which of these might be the most beneficial. What we agree on is that we like the plot. John is able to keep us interested in what is going to happen to Jolly. The characterization of Jolly's potential parents is good and we want to see how Jolly evolves as he literally goes through his second childhood. Hopefully we will get to see more of Jolly in July.

A mile before I-385 joined I-26 at Clinton, traffic slowed to a halt. I looked at my watch.

"We'll be a while."

I almost jumped through the roof. "Thaleia! You scared the crap out of me."

"It's Sunday. You shouldn't say 'crap.'" She push her seat back and propped her bare feet on the dash. She wore her auburn hair in a short summer clip, an Erskine College "I'd Rather be in Due West" tee shirt and Daisy Duke cutoffs. "Might as well cut the car off and save a little gas."

"How do you figure that?"

"A truck full of molasses sprang a leak." She smacked her fingertips. "What a mess!"

I turned off the ignition and opened my window. "What have you done?"

She looked at me wide eyed. "Me? You think I could have done such a thing?" She poked a sticky finger into the dash console and pulled out a paper napkin.

"I certainly hope nobody got hurt."

"Oh, please! I'm the Muse of Comedy. I'm all about happy endings." She rubbed the white paper lint from her fingers. "And it wasn't a very big leak."

"Okay, so why do you want to make me late for church."

"You are way too stressed. Relax, you've got plenty of time." She reached to the back, fumbled around under my pulpit robe and pulled my sermon from my Bible. "You wrote something. I have to critique it."

"It's a sermon," I said. "Not your usual fare."

"Le'me have your pen." She grabbed it from my pocket and marked the manuscript.

"What are you doing?" I reached for my papers. She pulled them away.

"It's just a little typo." She turned her back to her door and put her knees between us, her heels resting on the console. She bent over the text like a monk in a scriptorium, concentration written on her brow. The pen slashed across the page. "Lose this paragraph."

"Take it easy! I don't have another copy of that."

She reached over and switched the radio on. "Just chill for a while. This won't hurt a bit."

"How can it be real critique? Doesn't that always hurt?"

"A-s-s-y-r-i-a-n." She spelled a correction out loud as she wrote. "It depends. If you're really interested in improving in the craft, and are willing to submit to the discipline, you find it a most refreshing stress."

"You said I had too much of that already."

"Good critique is like dashing from a sauna to plunge into an icy pool-a shock that awakens the senses, makes them more acute."

The words "You're a cute nuance" came to mind, but were drowned in Eric Clapton's throbbing guitar. I settled back to enjoy "Layla" and tried to relax.

A honking horn woke me. The pages of my sermon lay scattered on the passenger seat. Thaleia was no where to be seen. I started the car, wondering if it had all been a dream, and joined the slow parade. Like a NASCAR race under caution, we eased up the interstate at minimal speed. Fortunately my exit was only a mile down the road. Perhaps, except within the town of Carlisle, I could get back a little time on Highway 72.

I tore into the parking lot, dodging other latecomers, with only minutes to spare. A pair of Elders showed me to the study. I slipped into my robe and clipped on the wireless mic. A prayer with the choir, and I soon found myself behind the unfamiliar pulpit.

Everything went smoothly, thanks to having obtained a copy of the bulletin in advance. My sermon came near the end, leading off with a synopsis of the western, "High Noon," summing up Hezekiah's watershed leap of faith with Lord Byron's "Destruction of Sennacherib", and a liberally sprinkled with the prophet Isaiah throughout. It remained for me to bring it home from across two and a half millennia.

I flipped aside the next to last page and found only the pulpit Bible below. A pregnant pause ensued as I quickly shuffled through the stack of spent text. Gone! Thaleia!! When I get my hands on that... I looked up to find dozens of eyes filled with anticipation. That old stage fright that deviled me in school clutched my throat.

"Fear!" I bluster at my invisible nemesis. "We must not give in to fear. In the dark days after Pearl Harbor (I hope that's right. Some of the white heads will remember.) President Roosevelt said, 'All we have to fear, is fear itself. Fear is, as Hezekiah learned, a fearsome (Doh! No backspace key on extemporaneous speech.) weapon of war. Chinese dictator, Chairman Mao, coined the phrase, 'Kill one, terrorize a thousand.' Today, thanks-or should I say, no thanks-to television, terrorists kill one and terrorize millions."

"So what are we to do? How are we to respond? We have but one sure hope: to follow the example of Hezekiah and lay it all before God." I picked up the Bible Songs book and flipped to number 188, Under His Wings. "As the Psalmist says, 'Be not afraid for the terror of midnight, nor for the arrow that hasteneth to slay; fear not the pestilence walking in darkness, nor the destroyer that wasteth by day.'"

From the looks on the faces, I judged they were glad it didn't sing the verse. I closed with a final word or my own. "If we are ruled by fear, we will be ruled by those we fear; if we fear God, He will be our stronghold and sovereign forever."

During the closing prayer, I opened my eyes for a moment for a glance at the bulletin, just in time to see a paper airplane float from the balcony and land on the pulpit. Extending my reverent remarks, I unfolded the missile and beheld my missing page. The prepared text was slashed by a broad X. Below she had penned, "Well done in the rewrite."

I looked up. A grinning redhead waved from the balcony. "I'll deal with you later," I said, forgetting the pulpit mic. "Uh! Amen!"

Printed Matters is the newsletter of the Greenville Chapter, SCWW, which meets on the first Thursday of each month at 6:00 p.m. at The Open Book, 110 S Pleasantburg Drive, Greenville, SC.

Thanks to our contributing writers and news reporters: Sarah Efird, Pat Stewart, Ray Lewis, Robin Prince Monroe, John Migacz and Kami Kinard.

Copyright 2004 by Leland Beaudrot, Editor. Contributing writers retain all rights to their work.