VIEWS
NATIONAL WRITERS ASSOCIATION LOS ANGELES
FEBRUARY 2009
multifaceted dynamo, rita white, to speak By Tom Howard
Our
multitalented featured speakerfacilitator for February 21 is human dynamo, Rita White, a salt-and-pepperhaired spark plug of a woman who not only teaches creative writing to children and adults, armed with more prompts than Jay Leno, but also has reinvented herself into a literary agent and documentary film producer. Ever the multifaceted Hollywood hyphenate, the subject of this article has worked as an editor, proofreader, columnist, book reviewer, award winning writer of short stories and poetry, brochure and newsletter designer, consultant to writers and occasional lecturer. Then in addition, for some real money, she works part time at a local nightclub as a cashier. When I interviewed her recently, over lunch in West Hollywood at the Silver Spoon Restaurant (not symbolic of her upbringing), her red lipstick hinted at her sense of style. Her sense of humor was evidenced by both the twinkle in her eyes and her brown sweatshirt that said boldly, “Eat dessert first. Life is short.” Born in Chicago, Rita was a lonely child who always loved to write. Her grandparents were busy theater people who appeared in over 100 films. Her grandmother portrayed F.D.R.’s mom in both the Broadway stage and film versions of Sunrise at Campobello.
When Rita was twelve, her mother’s second marriage, to an Air Force pilot, let to numerous relocations from Libya in North Africa to Kansas and Louisiana, where Rita graduated from LaGrange High School in Lake Charles, Louisiana. Then she herself leapt onto the stage and was in several community theater shows such as Finian’s Rainbow and Annie Get Your Gun. In the last scene of a local production of Streetcar Named Desire, it was Rita up there, in the final humble scene, playing the psychiatric nurse who helped carry away sensitive drama queen, Blanche Dubois. Rita’s next big role was in real life as wife and working mother in Western Massachusetts. Her two darlings are now, a few years later, both grown-up artists, a daughter living nearby and a son in Massachusetts. The name for Rita’s successful homebased business, Dancing Dragon Publications (memoir, poetry, cookbooks, greeting cards, brochures, and more) was inspired by an educational TV show on how bees danced to communicate where they located some nectar. In Rita’s mind, it was a short leap from bees to dragons, and voilá! Her colorful business card depicts a friendly dragon reading to a child. Ms. White also remains a devoted member of The Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators and was active for years with Women Writers West. Some
may recall when she came to visit NWALA ten years back, an experience she documented as cool, positive, uplifting, great, etcetera in The Hatchling, her 1999 quarterly writer’s newsletter with the insignia of a dragon emerging from a shell. For any of us lucky enough to meet Rita White on February 21 and find out in person that yes, indeed, she has more tricks up her sleeve than Houdini, we will be graced by her lively presence and inspired by a foray into her unique world. ® Meet Rita White February 21, 2009, at Mo’s Restaurant 4301 Riverside Dr. Burbank 10:00 a.m.
President’s Corner
Feeling a Little Bookish? I was okay with the closing of clothing store, Talbots, and high-end gadget store, The Sharper Image, but felt sad to read that Borders in Sacramento was closing. I guess our Arnold and his cohorts in state government don’t read anyway, but if they can’t browse anymore at their local Northern California Borders, they might consider joining the ranks of the penny pinchers of all ages and persuasions who are storming local libraries to rent movies, flip through free magazines, and shock of all shocks, read books! Unflappable book aficionada and local television host, Connie Martinson, always closes her show (featuring interviews with authors) with a pitch to support your local bookery, so I figure I can also sing the praise of our libraries. I quite enjoy a monthly book discussion group I have joined, which is held a few blocks from my Hollywood apartment at the Durant Library on Sunset. This group gets me to read at least one book a month. Two months ago, we read and dissected Never Let Me Go, by Kasui Ishiguro, author of The Remains of the Day. While also set in England, Never morphed from a depiction of a private school to an eerie,
science fiction tale of clones destined to donate organs. Wow! Last month it was The Big Sleep, by Raymond Chandler, his first Philip Marlowe detective mystery set in Hollywood of the 1930s (alluded to last year in a talk to our group by poet and book historian, Julia Stein). Was it cheating to have listened to this beautifully poetic and sharply descriptive tale on CD, as narrated by Eliot Gould? I think not, and the one hour discussion was fascinating. Our leader, a clever retired psychologist, saw one of Chandler’s characters
A Chinese Rejection Slip “We read your manuscript with boundless delight. By the sacred ashes
of our ancestors, we swear that we have never dipped into a book of such overwhelming mastery. If we were to publish this book, it would be impossible in the future to issue any book of a lower standard. As it is unthinkable that within the next ten thousand years we shall find its equal, we are, to our great regret, compelled to return this divine work and beg you a thousand times to forgive our action.” (anonymous) Courtesy of Rita White from the column “Today’s Smile,” in The Hatchling, July, August, September, 1999 (a publication of Rita White’s Dancing Dragon Publications). Editor’s Note: If you must receive a rejection slip, it might as well be a polite one.
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as slightly autistic, and Barri Clark brought in some additional books on Chandler and his work (such as The Critical Response to Raymond Chandler, edited by J.K. Van Dover), which were fun to browse. The hour of banter flew by and we peacefully settled on our next pick, Call It Sleep, a novel about Jewish immigrants by Henry Roth. I also usually manage to show up eagerly for a two-hour creative writing class held weekly at the same book depository. We meditate in silence for three minutes, write for ten, and then share both spontaneous as well as more carefully crafted work done at home. Sometimes our instructor, Andrea Beard, provides poetry, song or whimsy to kick our writing into gear. Over time, friendships are forged, ideas germinate, and we find that our writing gets better. Perhaps reading it aloud is part of the process of refinement. For Andrea’s class on Inauguration day, January 20, 2009, she played a tape of the song, “ ’Tis a Gift to be Simple,” and we were off and running, forging our own impressions of the momentous day and/or this famous Shaker hymn. We also discussed the poet of the day, Elizabeth Alexander, who earlier that day had read her commissioned work, “Praise Song for the Day” for the grand occasion in Washington, D.C. Many of us were quite moved by Ms. Alexander’s simple yet powerful piece, which, as it ends, reminds me of making my way the few blocks to my local library for some more reading, writing, and conversation: “On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp — praise song for walking forward in that light.” — T.H.
Redux
BARNES STORMS At our first monthly NWALA meet-
ing for the new year 2009, author Tom Barnes gave an inspiring talk with a wellorganized one-two-three punch covering his eclectic life and impressive body of work (see cover story in January Views). Like English writer, W. Somerset Maugham, Barnes keeps new ideas in a writer’s notebook. He also likes to follow the advice of Ernest Hemingway who said, “Begin with a pure, correct sentence, and go on from there,” and coached us, “Know, when you finish writing for the day, what you’ll start with the next day. When you do stop writing, go relax. Let your subconscious mind marinate ideas. Don’t think too much!” He read to us a riveting, one page short story culled from his life called “The Gin House Fire.” This was one of thirty such
By Tom Howard
true tales recently knocked out, by devoting only thirty minutes a morning, taking a memory from his own life and writing about it. With that type of discipline, who needs a writing class? In the kindest way possible, Barnes encouraged us all to seriously considertaking a flying leap into the worldwide blogosphere. He said, “Anyone can do it on any subject. Visit my blog, www.rockthetower.com, which has stories on any number of subjects from the Algonquin Round Table in New York to fly fishing and the history of the Hollywood movie business.” Mr. Barnes also uses his blog to promote his books, including the upcoming Tungee’s Gold, based on a legend of thirty slaves from the Ebo tribe in East Africa drowning themselves off St. Simon’s Island in Georgia. He said his novel, The Goring Collection,
about valuable paintings stolen by the Nazis, was inspired originally by a piece on TV on Sixty Minutes. His other two titles are Hurricane Hunters and Doc Holliday’s Road to Tombstone, the Life and Times of John Henry Holliday, and he shared more about their creation and respectable sales. As he wrapped up his talk, just under the wire time-wise, our speaker added, with just the right note of New Year’s zeal, “Look! Just go to Google and look for blog sites. Push yourself as a writer! Rise above yourself!” ®
Editor’s POV
Modern-Day Miracles “Miracles happen every day.” You might groan inwardly when you read this tired statement, but trite as it might be, it is also a truism. And, yes, I will grudgingly admit that whether miracles take place in your life or not may depend on your own personal definition of what constitutes “a miracle.”
Life itself is a miracle. The sun rising every morning and peeking through clouds to create a rainbow on a rainy day is a miracle. The teeming life force that lies dormant – sometimes for many years – inside a microscopic seed, bursting forth in a celebration of joie de vivre when moisture, temperature, and light conditions are just right, is a miracle. Miracles are in all the dimensions that surround us – our task is simply to remove the shutters from our eyes.
There is also the miracle of romantic love – that combination of just-the-right chemistry – we recognize in the month of
By LaVonne Taylor
February with St. Valentine’s Day. Romantic love is wonderful and responsible for the continuation of the species, but I like to see love expressed on a more universal basis through random acts of kindness, forgiveness, compassion, and empathy. I like to see it expressed through volunteerism, helping those who need it for no remuneration, just because they need the leg up.
Then there are the miracles that technology brings us, particularly the Internet. Just a short hundred years ago – give or take – the radio, the light bulb, the telephone, and the horseless carriage came into being. Then soon after, humankind started flying. Now, through the World Wide Web, we have a system for information gathering and communication that connects us globally and beyond in a magical arrangement of coding that flies through the air! This amazing state of affairs that we take for granted and have at our fingertips was science fiction to our parents.
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The Taylor Trust: Poetry & Prose quarterly magazine I publish contains work that came to me via the Internet from far-flung regions such as Singapore, Japan, and Ireland. I am “meeting” wonderful, erudite writers that I never would have met otherwise.
The little box on page two that contains the Chinese rejection letter, courtesy of our February speaker, Rita White is a wonderful reflection of a culture. And though I prefer not to publish work from those outside our organization in the Showcase, in this issue on page four we reprinted Poet Laureate Elizabeth Alexander’s inauguration poem, “Praise Song for the Day,” because the sentiment it expresses bears repeating. We wish to thank Rita White for her poem “I Am From,” on page five. On page six, Mary Port’s thumbnail history of the acrostic form is delightful as is the art she created when she responded to the challenge of putting one together. Wanda Weiskopf’s short rhyme à la Ogden Nash is also fun. ®
Washington mall
VIEWS SHOWCASE Today’s Sharp Sparkle
Praise Song for the Day By Elizabeth Alexander, United States Poet Laureate Inauguration Day Poem, recited by author on January 20, 2009 Each day we go about our business, walking past each other, catching each other’s eyes or not, about to speak or speaking. All about us is noise. All about us is noise and bramble, thorn and din, each one of our ancestors on our tongues. Someone is stitching up a hem, darning a hole in a uniform, patching a tire, repairing the things in need of repair. Someone is trying to make music somewhere, with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum, with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.
picked the cotton and the lettuce, built brick by brick the glittering edifices they would then keep clean and work inside of.
A woman and her son wait for the bus. A farmer considers the changing sky. A teacher says, “ Take out your pencils. Begin.”
Praise song for struggle; praise song for the day. Praise song for every hand-lettered sign, the figuring-it-out at kitchen tables.
We encounter each other in words, words spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed, words to consider, reconsider.
Some live by love thy neighbor as thyself, others by first do no harm or take no more than you need. What if the mightiest word is love?
We cross dirt roads and highways that mark the will of some one and then others, who said I need to see what’s on the other side.
Love beyond marital, filial, national, love that casts a widening pool of light, love with no need to pre-empt grievance.
I know there’s something better down the road. We need to find a place where we are safe. We walk into that which we cannot yet see.
In today’s sharp sparkle, this winter air, any thing can be made, any sentence begun. On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp,
Say it plain: that many have died for this day. Sing the names of the dead who brought us here, who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges,
praise song for walking forward in that light.
Reprinted courtesy of Graywolf Press and The New York Times.
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I Am From By Rita White I am from the genocide of the Armenians and Stalin’s purges from the songs of the Balalaika heard on the shores of Batum on the Black Sea a family of tradesmen with twenty-five children brother and sister, sole survivors fleeing to America from my father’s Cossack dances in the nightclubs of Chicago. I am from the Royalist chosen by George III to govern the Colony of Philadelphia later elected Mayor; from the Clan McCumber of the House of Stuart, a son of the Duke of Oxford, scholar and educator, Professor at Harvard University from Scrimshaw and Persian rugs, gifts to my great uncle, an Admiral of the Pacific Fleet from grandparents on stage, screen and television. I am from the Coca-Cola bottle grasped in toddler hands responding to five languages spoken in the family grocery a is for apple; der apfel, alma, yahblahkoh, jablko baby talk by day, nightclubs at night – sometimes on stage with my father I am from divorce at the age of three. I am from “alone” watching coal slide down into the cellar delivery of the block of ice, teaching myself to read in the house full of dogs my Hungarian uncle kept “rescuing” while two great aunts watch over my half-sister, half-brother (of invisible father) and me so my mother could work two jobs to support us on her own. I am from the ten year old resenting nuns telling me what I could and could not read would and would not believe, and loving the nuns as an excuse to escape the gate so I could roller skate down a hill with only a lamppost to catch (if I could) to keep from sailing into the busy DC traffic I am from the smell of incense and candles and Host wafers baking. I am from the reins of a camel held in teenage hands and ghiblis (sandstorms) and gharis (horse-drawn taxis) on the shores of Tripoli from A’mil ma’a roof (please) and Ketter hhayrek (thank you) from swimming in the Mediterranean to weekly tennis with a Count’s son and dinner with the last of the Turkish Karamanli’s. I am from days spent with teenage peers dancing, laughing and flirting, as was befitting evenings spent with mother and new Air Force stepfather dancing, laughing and flirting with ambassadors and officers as was not so befitting. I am from frozen olive oil winters in Chicago 4th of July fireworks at the Capitol watched from my front yard Christmases on the sands of the Libyan desert, tornadoes in Kansas I am from hurricanes in Louisiana and Mississippi I am from me, myself and I, all three of us survivors. I am from aunts, uncles, shoemakers, engineers, patriots, educators husbands, wives, lovers, doctors, writers, dancers, actors, painters brothers, sisters, friends, football players, secretaries, military men from ancestors of ancient times and long-gone places I am from the human race.
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FUN WITH WORDS By Mary L. Ports I just finished an acrostic, a word arrangement often used by Greek and Latin poets who toyed with this form for entertainment. It was a favorite form among the monks of the Middle Ages and many teachers today use the acrostic form to introduce their students to writing poetry. It is fun and simple, one of the easiest forms to learn because it only follows two rules: Rule 1: The subject of the poem is the most important part. It is usually in the title as it forms the body of the poem. Rule 2: Each line of the poem describes the subject seen in the title and the title is written vertically down the left side of the paper. Each letter of the title is the beginning of each new line. It isn’t necessary to make the poem rhyme or even have rhythm, but I liked the challenge, so this one rhymes with a few run-on sentences. *Editor’s Note: adversaria means a miscellaneous collection of notes, per The Word Lover’s Dictionary, edited by Josefa Heifetz.
TWO THOUSAND NINE VALENTINE
Two thousand nine, my Valentine, I hope Will find some time, to Open up his loving heart
To pen a poem, sublime. How much he loves my dear, sweet soul Or likes my company, he’ll write to Underscore these thoughts and Send a card to me. And then, from adversaria*, old Notes and paraphernalia, I’ll craft a loving message back: Dear Valentine, be mine. Now friendship’s grown and blossomed Into a large bouquet. New vistas opened, miles seem shorter Every single day.
Views, a newsletter for the members of the Los Angeles chapter of the National Writers Association is published monthly, except for July and August of each year. The meetings take place at 10 a.m. on the third Saturday of every month, except July and August, at Mo’s Restaurant, 4301 Riverside Dr., Burbank.
Valentines come once a year Although it’s often said, that Love in bloom comes anytime; Eternally, it’s fed. Noteworthily, I’m puzzled, since This Valentine of mine Insisted that we keep in touch, this year, Two Thousand Nine. I doubt I’ll ever meet him ’cause my E–mail’s bouncing back. I guess he’s just a quack!
OFFICERS President-Tom Howard Vice President-Joe Panicello Secretary-Arturo Ruiz Treasurer-LaVonne Taylor CHAIRMANSHIPS Madelyn Beck-Historian/Photographer Jack Clubb-Membership Mary L. Ports-Hospitality LaVonne Taylor-Webmaster, Views editor, Fundraising
For information, call: 323-876-3931 or go to www.nwala.org or www.nwalablog.org
The Inauguration By Wanda Weiskopf All day long our country watched Barack Obama’s inauguration — Whether attending or watching TV, A very magnificent celebration!
Art credits: Page 1 banner, stock. Rita White by Tashi. Page 2, Tom Howard by Arturo Ruiz. Mandarin painting by the Associated Press. Page 3, by Arturo Ruiz. Page 4, unknown. Page 5, unknown. Page 6, Spunky St. Jude, NWALA mascot, by LaVonne Taylor. Valentine clip art courtesy Dover Publications.
The National Mall was filled with people In spite of the wind and frigid cold — Obama spoke to the watching nation As everyone paused to see history unfold!
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