THE DESK - A CHRISTMAS STORY

It was Christmas day. I looked forward to Christmas. Relatives would visit and I would get a couple of pairs of socks from my Uncle Donald. I always got socks from him.

I loved looking at the paper angel embedded in a cotton cloud which topped the tree. The smell of the pine needles floated over me as my sister and I decorated the bare tree. My Grandma and Aunt would praise my untrained skills.

Afterwards, my sister and I would lie on our stomachs and play with the manger scene over and over again, placing all the figurines in different positions. I sucked on ribbon candy and smelled the pork roast cooking in the oven.

A stranger came to the door at the bottom of the attic steps. I stood at the top feeling the chill coming from the open door. I didn't know him but I watched as he delivered a desk for me. I loved to study and would use it in the hallway where I could have privacy.

There was no present for my sister. I didn't know what to think. I watched, numbed and turned inward. I knew my sister would be upset. Christmas was for everyone including her. At least, that was how it was supposed to be. In the eyes of my grandmother and aunt, I felt myself become more and more invisible.

Grandma was mad. Her Irish temper and her grandmother bear spirit braced her as she swung on her black wool coat and rushed down the stairs and into the onslaught of snow flurries.

I visualized her fighting her way down Cherry Street over to Main Street and heading north to Sharky's. Sharky's was a hardware store that would be open on a holiday. I saw her snow boots barely protecting her feet and ankles from the ten inches of snow that had fallen. Her hands tucked into the sleeves of her overcoat, chin down to protect her face.

She reappeared with a box containing a doll. The doll was for my sister. My sister wasn't going to be without a Christmas present even if my Grandma had to brave the harsh snow to get it for her.

As the day continued, my sister played with her doll and I tentatively investigated the desk.  I looked at all the nooks and crannies while the day's events seared the back of my mind.

I rarely felt good about the presents my father gave me. They only reminded me of the presents my sister never received. Every gift came with guilt.

 

Writing from the Heart

I have read and heard much advice: write what you know, write grammatically correct, write accurate information, etc. While this well-meaning counsel may help on many levels, it won't sustain me when I desire my written results to say exactly what I mean; my writing needs to reveal my soul, my heart.

I recently viewed the life of Ernest Hemingway. His "Old Man and the Sea" won a Nobel prize. After finishing this novel, he said he was emotionally exhausted. Another author, Val McDermid said she was on the verge of a nervous breakdown upon completion of "A Place of Execution."

Although my experiences are not as extreme as theirs, I have felt emotional upheavals. This occurred when I wrote a little essay on walking to school with my second grade teacher. I had always remembered our walks fondly and, in my best of times, I would imitate our walks with a song in my head and a bounce in my step.

As I typed, punching words on the computer page, emotions welled up in my chest. The more I continued, the more I could not contain my emotions; my feelings passed from my chest threw my arms and flowed out through my uncontrollable sobs as my fingers typed away. The sobs continued as I thought of her, a spinster. I visualized a tall, thin, erect fifty-year woman with her gray hair pulled back in a bun. As we walked down Church Street in Poughkeepsie, New York, she sang quietly -- just little ditties. I, being seven years old, walked next to her on the slate sidewalk leading to Smith School. It was spring; crocuses bloomed in the grass; elderly oak trees lined the curbs. She and I walked to school that entire second grade. She hummed and sang, most of all, she had a happy walk which I developed.

As I clicked the keys, tears ran down my cheeks; I missed her. I knew she was dead and I wondered about her life. I was indebted to her because she gave me a real gift which I have appreciated all these years. Regretably, I have never had an opportunity to thank her personally for her special quiet gift to me. I still can't fight back the tears as I think of her unselfishness and her dedication as a teacher of an impressionable, isolated seven-year old girl.

Afterwards, surprised and alarmed by my experience, I vowed I would never go there again; the emotional eruption was just too painful. I have since learned that emotions, while uncomfortable, need not be avoided and can actually create genuine writing. Writing from the heart contributes to the writer's ability to deliver real characters and real feelings.

My advice is: Readers don't want trite, wooden writing. They want to feel; they want to experience life -- a life they would not ordinarily have. They want to read your work because it enhances them not only through identification with your characters but by helping them reach the very depths of their souls and hearts.

Georgia Lee Arnt

Invitation to New Writers to Learn from my Experiences

What? This wasn't easy? I thought all I'd have to do was scribble meaningful words on a sheet and tell a story. Well, writing my first novel hasn't been that simple. It was a lot harder -- a whole lot harder. But as I persevered, I basked in my increased skills and survived by my tenacity.

Yes, I embraced my life-long passion to learn and buckled down to absorbing everything about writing and writing a murder mystery. I soon discovered I couldn't do one without the other. Yup. The two were intermingled like DNA. If I were working on a DNA chain, I would need a PhD in microbiology, fellowship placement and God knows what other training. And that might be for simply looking at a Cystic Fibrosis gene, of which there are many types. The need to focus through a microscope was analogous to focusing on the various nuances of writing.

Therefore, I thought I would give new writers the benefits of my journey down this uncharted road. I said "uncharted" because my path was neither formally mapped by a graduate program in journalism, fine arts degree in writing nor a master's in English literature. My learning has been on an "on needed" basis much like being tutored by a mentor or supervisor. It has been honestly painful and delightfully rewarding.

If any of my blog readers would like to travel down this meandering river through it numerous tributaries opening to a sea of knowledgeable writing, join me. We can take this trip together.

Georgia Arnt, 2/16/2010

Dead Men Don't Move - Snowplowing during Blizzard

Dead Men Don't Move - Snow Scene

Hoboken, N.J. Street Scene Blizzard Conditions

Dead Men Don't Move, Blizzard Scene