Collections: Mine And Theirs

It is compatible, really: a house filled with books and boys. Perhaps not clean. But filled with life. And literature. And crumbs.

My favorite things are on display. Why not theirs?

Where Stories Come From

It seems to be going around, this question. It’s drifted through conversations and crowded rooms and online communities.

“What is your word for 2011?”

One week into this new year my word has settled into me. It’s taken root and spread across my thoughts.

In truth it’s been chasing me around the page for months. A year perhaps. And I laugh to think that I didn’t recognize it at first. It’s obvious now. I’ve been reading this book. And I wrote this essay.

This word you see…I’m trying to live one. And write a new one.

STORY.

Outsider Art: a term coined by French artist Jean Dubuffet (art brut) to describe art created outside the boundaries of official culture.

Confession: I’ve never attended the Iowa Writers’ Workshop.

Or Columbia University.

Yet I am a student of words, and more importantly, story. Whether that makes me an Outsider is debatable (especially considering the original application of Dubuffet’s term being for the mentally ill, with specific reference to the visual arts) but I certainly skirt the edges of “official” culture.

This urge to create is woven into the helix of my DNA. It’s as much a part of me as the freckles and brown eyes. Be it official or not.

Earlier today I posted this picture on She Reads as part of a book giveaway for my novel, Eye of the God. Who knew that such a little pinky could cause such a big stir? Inquiring minds want to know how one becomes Nine Fingered Frodo….er…Ariel.

It’s a simple story, really. One that involves an older brother and a shopping cart.

I was a wee child, not yet two, riding in the basket of a shopping cart. It was Christmas and my mother had my older brother and I with her as she ran errands. As brothers are want to do, mine began messing with the shopping cart. One minute he was pushing the cart back and forth to make me laugh, the next we were on the floor, his weight, my weight, and everything on the cart landing on the tip of that little finger.

There was nothing left to sew on.

The healing process required minor surgery, a skin graft, three months in a bandage, and a sock (pinned to my sleeve so I wouldn’t remove the bandage).

My only regret about the whole ordeal is that my brother never got a spanking. I’d still lodge a complaint if I could. Yet honestly, I rarely give my finger a second thought. Unless I’m typing. In which case you may not want to sit on my left side. In effort to reach Q and Z I might stab you with an elbow.

Thanks for dropping by! This website is so new it squeaks. So please forgive the bare walls. I’m still unpacking boxes. But I promise that I’ll have some paint on the walls soon. Even a few pictures.

Until then know that you’re welcome.