Elwyn Brooks White

"We are having splendid weather and I am building a stone wall. I understand that all literary people, at one time or another, build a stone wall. It's because it's easier than writing."
- E.B. White

Elwyn Brooks White, aka E.B. White, is my latest literary hero. Here's why:

Not only is he famous for editing "The Strunk," but he was one of the first and most lasting of the New Yorker magazine's roster of writers, contributing his essays and unsigned "Notes and Comment" pieces for sixty years.

Not only that, but he was a great wit (see quotation above). I love a great wit. Right now I'm chuckling my way through the 600-plus page volume, Letters of E.B. White, driving The Business Guy a little crazy with my outbursts of "Listen to this!" followed by impromptu readings regardless of what he's in the middle of doing.

(Think of it: 600-plus pages of letters, and they're all E.B's! How many of us can say we've written five thank-you letters in as many years? And think of all the interruptions the Business Guy has to look forward to!)

All of the above I had been vaguely aware of for some time. But when I put it together that Elwyn Brooks White is the same E.B. White who authored three of my all-time favourite children's books, the earth shifted on its axis with a small bump. Did you feel it? If not, the biggest not-only of them all will surely bring it on. Brace yourselves.

Not only all of the above, but...

E.B. White is the author of Stuart Little, Charlotte's Web, and The Trumpet of the Swan.

Bump.

I'm still reeling.

In a letter to children's editor Anne Carroll Moore, who in 1939 was most eager to get her mitts on the Stuart Little manuscript, E.B. writes:

"My fears about writing for children are great - one can so easily slip into a cheap sort of whimsy or cuteness. I don't trust myself in this treacherous field unless I am running a degree of fever."
I'm a bit of a children's writer myself, and I love it that E.B. has such high regard for his young readers that he would resist dashing something off for them. Another of his letters to do with Stuart Little is worth reproducing in its entirety:

"I will do my best to make some progress with Stuart Little. I can't make any promises, as the effect on me of forced labour is sometimes rather dreadful. My wife is nagging me about Stuart, too; in fact today I told her she would have to stop - that she was driving me too hard. I think it made quite an impression on her.

"All I can truthfully say about Stuart is that I will keep fall publication in mind as a goal, but that everything depends on whether the finished product turns out pleasing to mine eye. I would rather wait a year than publish a bad children's book, as I have too much respect for children.
"One of the problems, of course, would be to find a satisfactory illustrator... It would have to be somebody who likes mice and men, and who knows a little of their hopes, joys, disappointments, etc.

"I will keep you informed as to the progress, if any, of the book. Right this minute I am wet nurse to 250 small red chicks, and God help my publisher and my readers - all ten of them... Yrs."

Spoken like a true hero.

Link: E.B. White

Butterfly

"Writing is the only thing that, when I do it, I don't feel I should be doing something else."
- Gloria Steinem

Sock the Second is done. There is no need for re-knitting Sock the First, as the two are similar enough to keep my feet happy and warm. No revisions required.

My short story, Butterfly, was another matter. Herewith, revised:


Butterfly
by
Binnie Brennan

Clifford slams the door, and checks that it’s locked before swinging first one leg and then the other down to the pavement. With his inflamed hip this is achieved with some awkwardness and a grunt; it doesn’t help that his beer gut gets in the way and slows him down. He blows some warmth into his cupped hands before filling the rig’s tank. This morning’s hard frost will do in the last of Marion’s tomatoes, but there’s nothing to be done about it. Next week he will return from the Florida route to the blackened fruit and an empty home. Christ knows, snow, maybe.

A quick cup of coffee to take off the chill, and he will be on his way, with Dolly Parton for company. That woman can break a man’s heart – Here You Come Again, Heartbreak Express, I Will Always Love You. Easy on the eyes, too; a double-F feast for a man like Clifford, who’s gone without far too long. He feels a boner creeping into place and with a twinge of guilt, hitches his trousers as he saunters into the truckstop and takes the booth nearest the door.

“Cuppa coffee, hon?”

Delores, the badge pinned to her mint-green blouse reads. Delores has a voice that could grate cheese and a mouth like a postage slot. Her hair is cut short and is the colour of faded straw. She may not be any Dolly Parton, but at least she’s friendly.

“Yes, please. Got a long drive ahead.”

“Whereabouts you off to?”

“Florida.”

“Anywheres warmer than here is okay by me,” Delores rasps. “Here’s a menu. Be right back.” She twitches off to another table and takes the guy’s order.

The door opens, letting in a cold whoosh of air. Couple of hippie kids, all braids and scarves. Jesus sandals with woolen socks, holes in the toes. What are they trying to prove, anyways, Clifford wonders. At least when he was a hippie, a real hippie, back in the late ’60s, they were trying to do good in the world. These kids are just trying to draw attention to themselves, with their tattoos and piercings Christ-knows-where. He squints at the menu, thinks about the route to Gainesville. Always in his mind he is planning a route, driving ahead of himself to avoid surprises. Once he’s driven someplace, he’s got it lodged in his memory. It’s a gift, like a musician’s memory for a tune.

The hippies are talking quietly, looking around the room. Clifford prepares himself; any minute they’ll be sidling up to try and mooch a ride. But he has a firm policy: no free rides to strangers, not after what happened to old Frank and his wife when they picked up some nutcase hiding a stash of coke and a four-foot length of piano wire in his backpack.

“What’ll it be, hon?”

Delores is back, her voice grinding like rusty gears, swishing her cloth on the formica and whisking a paper placemat and cutlery before him with the breathtaking speed of a career waitress.

“Trucker’s special, please. Over-easy on whole wheat.”

“Be right up.”

The hippie girl is shaking her head. Looks embarrassed. The hippie boy kisses her on the cheek, and then – Christ, what’s he doing, standing on a chair and clapping his hands?

“Excuse me, hello? Everyone, could I please have your attention – hello? Excuse me? ”

At which point the girl puts two fingers between her lips and shrieks a whistle that’d stop a bull. The diner is suddenly silent. Truckers in dirty ball caps turn with dubious expressions, some of them shaking their heads at the nerve of these kids.

“Uh, yeah. Um, thanks… Listen, my girlfriend and I were just wondering? You know, if any of you truck drivers who are heading south would consider taking this along with you?” The hippie holds up a shoebox for all to see. “You’d be doing us all a huge favour, you know? And…”

A voice emerges from the crowd. “You want one of us to take a box of Christ-knows-what south? Are you kiddin’ me, bud?”

The air rumbles with the laughter of thirty experienced drivers as they all turn back to their breakfasts.

“Wait, no, it’s nothing like that! It’s a butterfly. Really.”

But no-one is listening. The drivers are far more interested in their hash browns and sausage links than what the young people have in their shoebox. The girl pulls on the hippie’s sleeve, which he yanks away from her grip as he climbs down off his chair. The two of them sit miserably on stools, with the box on the counter between them. Delores raises her eyebrows and waves her coffee pot at them, but they shake their heads. Then she chats with them, and the girl lifts the shoebox lid an inch for her to peer in. Delores nods her head in wonder, and pours them coffee anyway.

Clifford thinks ahead to the Florida drive. He will not drive down to East Florida, as he and Marion had planned last spring, will not be making the side trip to pay the deposit on an RV home. Their dream home. Twenty-nine-thousand saved, mostly put away from Marion’s pension and disability, enough to get them and their furniture down there in time for Christmas. Marion had driven with him the last time and chosen the place, Magnolia Village. Nice folk, people like them who live quietly and don’t expect too much of life, just a little sunshine in winter and evening card games. A few beers and a bowl of pretzels, maybe the Tonight Show if they’re up to it.

Clifford smiles, thinking of Marion’s eyes, her rattling, wheezing cackle every time she wins a game of euchre.

Every time she won, that is. His smile vanishes.

“Here ya go, hon. Over-easy on whole wheat. Just what the doctor ordered.” Delores rips his bill off the pad and flicks it on the table, then in a lowered voice, asks him, “You said you’re driving south?”

“What?” Clifford wonders if Delores is propositioning him, until she nods her head in the direction of the sulking hippies.

“It’s a monarch they got in that box. You know, a butterfly.”

“A butterfly?” Clifford blinks in disbelief.

“One of them orange and black ones you don’t see so much any more. They say they rescued it, but it’s getting too cold out for it to survive. Go figure, eh? Here, lemme give you a refill.”

Clifford stares at the couple, then looks away, but it’s too late; the girl has seen him looking, and is climbing off her stool and hurrying over to his booth, clutching the box to her thin chest.

Clifford makes busy with his breakfast, and pretends not to see the hippies as they stand beside him.

“Sir? Sir, may I ask you something?” Her voice is oddly child-like. He wasn’t expecting a ‘sir’ from her, and he is surprised by her overbite, which he hadn’t noticed earlier.

“Hmm? What’s that?” Couldn’t her parents have sprung for braces, he wonders.

“Mind if we sit a minute, sir? We won’t stay long, I promise, and then you can eat in peace. You know, peace?” She points at the peace symbol at her boyfriend’s neck, carved wood held in place with a leather thong, above which his adam’s apple bobs with nervous swallows.

“Sir, my name is Maya, and this here’s my boyfriend, Robert. We have a huge favour to ask, if you don’t mind.”

Maya slides into the seat opposite him, and pulls her boyfriend with her. She has made two syllables of ‘huge.’ While she draws breath, Robert jumps in. His face looks too young for the growth of beard he’s attempting on his chin.

“Yeah, it’s really cool. Couple weeks ago Maya brings home this butterfly? You know, a monarch? Anyways, she found it on a fence, and it was, um, injured. He had a little tear in his wing, and Maya was so cool, she just emptied out her water bottle and put him inside with a few leaves, you know?”

“Yeah, and then I rushed home and showed it to Robert,” Maya interrupts breathlessly. “I thought, surely to God there’s gotta be a way to rescue this butterfly, and so I checked out the Internet.”

“And she totally found it, Friends of the Monarch? A website about the migration of the monarch butterfly. Can you believe it?”

Robert looks at Clifford eagerly, then at Maya, who is gazing at him expectantly with enormous blue eyes untarnished by makeup. Clifford nods his head as though to say yes, he can believe it.

Looks away from the girl’s unblinking gaze.

“There’s a whole page about wing repair, so we followed the instructions and made a splint,” Maya says, resting a small hand against the side of the box.

“You made a splint for a butterfly?” Clifford wonders if he’s hearing right.

“Yeah, and then we fed him, you know, rotting pears and honey? Fattened him right up. It’s been an amazing journey, you know?”

“And now we need you to finish the butterfly’s journey,” says Maya in a pleading voice.
The mention of rotting pears brings to mind Marion’s frostbitten tomatoes, which will be black on the vine this time next week. Clifford brings the coffee cup to his mouth and takes a long swallow. Winces at the bitterness.

“He’s been flapping around the house, and we’re afraid the cat’s going to eat him. There’s no way he can migrate on his own without freezing, now.” Robert swallows, causing his adam’s apple to dance.

“Sir, we really need your help. This butterfly won’t stand a chance without you. Please, sir, do you think you could take him with you?”

She clasps her pale hands and brings them to her chin.

Maya is really very pretty, with her braided hair and her enormous blue eyes. The overbite lends her an appealingly vulnerable look. Christ, he thinks, looking away. She’s young enough to be his grand-daughter. And there’s Marion, only four months in the grave. Christ, he thinks again.

Robert slides the shoebox across the table. There are holes poked in the lid in the shape of a heart.

“Wanna see Ludwig? That’s what we named him. For Beethoven, right?”

“Yeah, our cat’s name is Leopold, as in Mozart. We just love classical,” Maya pipes up.
Robert eases the lid open a few inches to reveal some yellowed leaves and a twig, upon which clings the monarch, its wings opening and closing slowly to its own rhythm. The fragrance of rotting fruit makes its way from the box to Clifford, who gazes at the butterfly wondering what in hell he’s getting himself in for.

“Sure, I’ll take it,” he says. Across from him, Robert beams, and Maya bounces in her seat, laughing and clapping her hands.

“Aw, man, this is awesome! Thank you so much!” Robert manages. Maya leans across the table and kisses Clifford on the cheek, then turns to Robert and plants one on his mouth.

“See, I told you we’d find someone. Sir, you’re the best. Just the best.”

Clifford’s cheek tingles where Maya kissed him. He tries not to think of it while they are exchanging cell phone numbers.

“There oughta be enough pear in there to feed him for a few days. Please, please don’t let him get cold, and remember to call us the minute you release him.”

Clifford and Robert shake hands, and Maya flings her arms around him. At the next booth a few sets of bristly eyebrows rise beneath baseball-cap bills, but Clifford does not care.

“Thank you so much, sir. You are a kind and generous man. Take care of Ludwig for us – you’re saving his life.”

Ludwig, sheesh! he thinks as he zips his coat and tucks the shoebox under his arm. The girl’s eyes are bright with tears as the pair leave the truck stop and climb into a rusted Gremlin, which wheezes onto the highway.

“Here, hon, take this along.”

Clifford is surprised when Delores hands him a paper bag.

“You’ll want a little lunch sometime,” she says softly. “That’s a good thing you’re doing, there. Drive safe.”

“Thanks,” he says, holding the bag in one hand and the shoebox in the other. He must hurry to the rig before the cold air gets to the butterfly. With surprising ease he swings up into the cab, gently placing the shoebox on the floor between the seats.

As the rig gathers speed, Dolly sings Nine to Five. Clifford will make good time, get the job done. And then he will drive on to East Florida, where he will release Ludwig to the temperate skies of Magnolia Village.

End

Binnie Brennan
Words: 2100
23 November, 2008
All Rights Reserved

Word Doodles

"Often when I write I am trying to make words do the work of line and colour. I have the painter's sensitivity to light. Much (and perhaps the best) of my work is verbal painting."
- Elizabeth Brown

The late, great John Updike once said he'd write about anything, even the pencils lying on his desk. Makes me think of an artist's doodling, sketching the world around her for the satisfaction of committing the image to paper in a certain way. Doing so fulfills a creative need to sort out a thing, tell a story.

Why not sketch the pencils with words?

How is the light falling on them, indicating time of day? What was the last thing written using them, and why that and not something else? Are the ends of them pocked with teeth marks? Were they tossed aside and left to roll off the desk, or laid down side by side with care? Whose pencils are they, and why are they lying there?

It's not unlike some of the writing exercises I've done over the years to kick-start a story. Matter of fact I think I'll go and doodle about pencils right now.

But first I'll shove the knitting needles out of the way.

And then I'll re-read Elizabeth Bishop's hilarious and insightful essay, The USA School of Writing. The first time through, I laughed so hard I jumped over words.

And then I'll get doodling.

Birdsong, Submissions, and a Sock.

"Get five rejections in a day... Making rejection a goal also takes some of the sting out of it."
- Carolyn Cutler

Someone needs to tell the songbirds it's still winter, but it won't be me. I'm enjoying their arias too much. They accompanied me on my way to the gym today, pealing and burbling through the crisp, -8 Celcius air. I walked on and off the sidewalk, nipping around the four-foot-high frozen-solid snowbanks lining the roads, in my efforts to avoid the one icy patch I'm destined to fall upon. I'm pleased to report I haven't yet found it. Maybe I won't this year.

I finished knitting Sock the First, and am inordinately pleased with myself. It's a fine sock, red and brown stripes not of my doing, but of the clever yarn manufacturer's. The ribbing is a bit loose and there are a few mystery holes, but it seems to fit. Sock the Second is well under way, and is turning out to be rather more svelte, which means I must be finding my groove with the business of knitting with four needles. And it may well mean Sock One becomes also Sock Three, if I can stand to rip it out and knit it all over again, following the philosophy of Writing is Rewriting, ie Knitting is Reknitting.

Or not.

This week's submissions have been most interesting, including a couple of stories sent to an anthology looking for stories written about the sea. Given that the working title of my short story collection is - ahem - Harbour View, this one grabbed my attention. Another story went off to the UK to a print publication that supplies London Underground commuters with reading material - a considerable readership, I should think, looking for a literary diversion to brighten up the ride to work. What a great idea.

It feels good to get my hands on my stories and push them out the door to the ring of birdsong in the cold. They're quite good, I think. The stories, that is. As is the sock.

Happy Birthday, EB!

"When I am reading a book, whether wise or silly, it seems to be alive and talking to me."
- Anton Chekhov

Follow-up to last week's library treasures. Rather than burble on about what a great haul it was, I'll get straight to the point:

1. The Frozen Thames, by Helen Humphreys, is an enchanting collection of forty vignettes, one written for each time the River Thames has frozen since 1142. I'm a big fan of the vignette, and quite enjoy writing really short fiction. Just because it's small, doesn't mean it's easy; in fact, the reverse is true. It's a terrific challenge, conveying a lot of meaning in few words, and Helen Humphreys' virtuosity lies in not only her doing so, but in painting vivid characters and scenes with a poet's touch. It's a great book, and beautifully illustrated. A cautionary tale about the importance of ice in the world.

2. Elizabeth Zimmermann is my new best friend. Her Knitting Without Tears is at once pithy, wise, and informative; in fact, it's downright inspiring. Her premise that human beings are built to accommodate a series of tubes, therefore eliminating the need for purl stitch and sewing seams (to do with knitting on circular needles, hooray!), has stolen my heart. EZ has me convinced that, not only can I knit a sweater that will actually fit the person it's intended for, but that I can also knit a pair of socks. And believe me, that takes some doing! Too often I have gazed longingly at a pattern and, long before the halfway mark, been utterly defeated by it. Thanks to my new best friend, there's hope for the chilly feet around here.

3. I am in awe of Elizabeth Bishop's writing, since reading her Collected Prose. Her short story, In the Village, is as moving and perfect a work as any I have ever read, played, listened to, or looked at, and it had the same effect as any masterpiece of any genre. There are images and emotions that simply will not leave me, nor do I particularly want them to.

At the Elizabeth Bishop Birthday Bash on Sunday I closed my eyes and listened, enraptured, as people took turns reading her poetry. I shall certainly seek it out, especially her poem, Sandpiper. If the Elizabeth Bishop Society newsletter is anything to go by (and it is), the publication of EB's 2008 Library of America volume Poems, Prose, and Letters (2008) is something for readers to celebrate. In addition to being a first-rate poet and prose writer, EB is touted as one of the greatest letter-writers of the twentieth century. This alone makes me put the new volume at the top of my birthday wish list. The wait-time on the library reserve list is far too long for my impatient heart.

Library Treasures

All my life I have lived and behaved very much like the sandpiper - just running down the edges of different countries and continents, 'looking for something'."
- Elizabeth Bishop

Today's trip to the library turned up three lovely books:

1. The Frozen Thames, by Helen Humphreys: follow-up to three novels of hers* I devoured last month in quick succession. This is a small book, a hardcover chopped in half, which is kind of enticing. Even more enticing is the jacket blurb:

"...forty vignettes based on events that actually took place each time the river froze between 1142 and 1895. Humphrey's achingly beautiful prose acts like a photograph, capturing a moment and etching it forever on our imaginations."

It's true of Humphreys' prose. She has the poet's way with words, an ability to combine them in such a way that will rip your heart out or feed an image you never thought could be adequately described. Can't wait to get started.

2. Knitting Without Tears, by Elizabeth Zimmerman. How appealing a title is that? I've been hearing about EZ for years, and have only recently taken it in that her approach to knitting is rather organic; in other words, her patterns are more like recipes that require you to use your wits and trust your own good sense as you go - kind of like writing fiction.

The jacket blurb refers to EZ's wit and good humour, which is abundant in her introduction, The Opinionated Knitter:

"Really, all you need to become a good knitter are wool, needles, hands, and slightly below-average intelligence. Of course superior intelligence, such as yours and mine, is an advantage." Have already started reading and chuckling.

3. Elizabeth Bishop: The Collected Prose. A poet friend, who is a leading Bishop scholar, has recently infected me with her enthusiasm for EB. She has recited for me a few lines of EB's poetry, which caught my ear and my imagination. My friend has invited me to this weekend's Elizabeth Bishop Birthday Bash at our local Writers' Federation office. There will be readings, cake, and prizes for best costumes based on EB's writings. Last year's winner was costumed as a thunder and lightning storm, which I think is just great.

Where I've never read any of Bishop's work, I figure I ought to do a little homework. The book was on reserve for a few weeks, so it comes in the nick of time. I'm especially looking forward to reading her short story, "In the Village," which the jacket blurb tells me is "...an extraordinary account of a Nova Scotia childhood." It appeared in the New Yorker, as did three of her eight published stories. I can't wait to get started.

A Helen and two Elizabeths, all of them fascinating and fine writers.

Did I mention... I can't wait to get started.

*Coventry, Afterimage, and Leaving Earth

Inspiration

"Don't ask who's influenced me. A lion is made up of the lambs he's digested, and I've been reading all my life."
- Giorgos Seferis

Not much writing happening these days, but there never is at this time of year - there are too many happy distractions.

For example, as I type, the Non-Resident-Non-Teenager (NRNT) is flopped on my bed (my Writer's Garret stuff having been relegated to the bedroom as the NRNT needs to sleep somewhere), carrying on the following one-sided conversation:

"I love how Al drives over the snowbanks," she observes, looking out the window at the spoils of last night's snow storm.

"Mm-hmm..." I reply, typing.

"He just drives over it again and again. Never mind shovelling."

"Mm-hmm..."

"Can you hear this pop?" She pops her knee.

"No." Still typing.

"Oh. Well, can you hear this pop?"

"No."

"Oh. Well, can you hear this pop?"

"No."

"Oh. Well, can you hear this pop? Never mind."

NRNT hops from the bed and bangs on the Resident Teenager's (RT) door. I need them to dig the car out from the frozen mountain of slush ploughed into the mouth of the driveway through the night. More happy chatter, at least from the NRNT; grunts from the sleepy one as they pull on their coats and boots.

And so it will go for a few precious weeks: Squawks, giggles, non-sequiturs, and the odd blowup as our routines are joyfully disrupted. And then we'll all get back to work, the NRNT at her new co-op placement in a far city, the RT starting rehearsals for two new theatre productions (oh yeah, and school), the Business Guy doing business, and me back to the Writer's Garret, pondering the eternal literary question of What's Next?

Until then, I wish all readers peace and much fiction (give Canadian a try!) for the holidays. Time now for a sugar plum - I'll be back in the New Year.