Have you ever read Ray Bradbury's Dandelion Wine?

I wrote this very brief, impassioned review of it just now. (Click on the teeny image of the book cover to reach it.)

Slow

He yelled at the large young man crossing the road
against traffic—
the morning sun too much in his eyes:
"Idiot!"
and saw too late
the mouth agape, the frightened eyes, badly cut hair,
and felt the heat of shame
rise in his belly.

© 2008 Erica Jeffrey

It's OK to be a writer. For a job.

Yep. It's more than OK. It's nice to have others read my writing as a sort of validation of how I invest my time, but I guess I'd keep writing even if no one else were reading my work. Happily, people do.

Why do many artistic folks feel a need to justify their chosen work? I, for one, didn't inherit this attitude from my parents, who were artists themselves. Yet, over the years I've guiltily hidden my stories and poems the same way I've hidden candy-bar wrappers and empty See's Victoria Toffee boxes.

Ironically, sometimes it's more "OK" in my mind to edit and proofread--and promote--other people's writing than it is to work on mine. Isn't that weird? What if chefs felt this way about the dishes they create? Or shepherds about their sheep? Or firefighters about the fires they battle? ("No, it's OK. I'll just leave this house to burn for now and come help you with that one.")

When I was a kid, I wrote for the pure joy and release of it. Then, as I entered adulthood, the whole money thing got entangled with the production of writing in my mind. It began to seem that without a concrete something being received in exchange for a story or poem or essay I'd produced, I wasn't really working. I was . . . playing.

I'd like to think more like the second worker in the following story: A visitor to the construction site of one of Europe's great cathedrals in the Middle Ages asked a stone cutter what he was doing. The stonemason replied, "I'm making a brick." The visitor asked another stonemason the same question. That stonemason answered, "I'm making a cathedral."

:-) :-) :-)

New blog to check out: Three Sisters Blog

My friend Nicki, a wonderful young mother and writer, has started a blog with her sisters. One of them lives in Nebraska, so I already love their blog. They posted a plug for my book (Omaha Beach) today, which makes me love their blog even more!

Check out their writing: Three Sisters

Yakari and the Stranger

One of my writing jobs is translating French comic books into English for Cinebook, the "9th art publisher." (If you know what that tagline refers to, send your explanation as a comment and I'll post it!) This fun work has introduced me to some classic Franco-Belgian comic books and graphic novels, including the beloved Yakari series by Job and Derib. Yakari is a young Sioux boy who can converse with animals. In each volume, Yakari learns a valuable life lesson through an encounter with animals.

In Yakari and the Stranger, the boy and his horse Little Thunder help a pelican that has a nasty cold. This charming story teaches a lesson, quite powerfully, about kindness--or a lack thereof--repaid.

These tales are a welcome change from the superheroes and angst that fill the pages of many popular comic books and graphic novels.

A River Runs Through It (the book, by Norman MacLean)

A River Runs Through It and Other Stories, Twenty-fifth Anniversary Edition by Norman Maclean

My review

rating: 5 of 5 stars
Incredible writing: profound, poetic, unflinching, humane. The book and the movie have both had impacts on my work and the way I look at the people around me.


View all my reviews.

Unfinished Business

Recently I found the following journal entry, which I wrote for a college class many, many years ago. I was 20 at the time. Who was I to be philosophizing?

Last year I got to thinking about unfinished business. I decided that living one's life is like weaving a rug.If you leave any threads untied or broken, they may hold secure as long as you're weaving. At the least stress, though, no matter how tightly you weave—maybe even as you're pulling it off the loom—the ends might loosen throughout and the rug fall apart.

I had gone through one of those familiar phases of trying to shape my actions around a few choice mottoes and proverbs. In this particular round, I paid off debts, confessed bygone mistakes and even went so far as to throw away some old, special letters I'd been saving. Once in awhile, I even cleaned my room.

I tend to overdo a few things. Well, sometimes I over-everything. It wasn't long before I was neatly wrapping up relationships that had been giving me trouble for awhile. Somehow, the idea of finishing business turned into not getting involved in any kind of business at all—that is, not getting into situations that would leave me obliged to anyone. That meant sticking to the basic necessities of socialibility and friendship and not cultivating any relationships that would leave a lasting, maybe bothersome impression on me afterward.

It didn't take long to see that those obligations and troubles were the brighter threads in the rug, and that the whole pattern looked pretty dismal without them. They were time-consuming, and difficult, but the end result was so much finer when they were included.

I also saw the nonsense in trying to tie off a thread before coming to the end of it. Use it until it comes to its end, then tie it off with a necessary bit sticking out behind the knot. Deciding to tie it off halfway through leaves a long end trailing off, looking clumsy and messy in the rug. Really, cutting anything off before it's finished is painfully wasteful.