Oregon Tavern Age: Writer

NSP Meditations, Oregon Tavern Age , , , , ,

(In honor of Oregon Governor Kate Brown proclaiming April as Oregon Tavern Age Month, the blog will feature a full week of OTA stories. A new book of these tales is slated for a fall publication in some atypical publishing format.)

“I’ll have a shot of well whiskey with a shot of well whiskey back,” said the OTA man wearing a brown hoodie. He occupied a stool at the bar of the South Jetty. He sported nicks and cuts on his face. His OTA girlfriend stood next to him. She wore Grateful Dead attire and placed the same drink order.

Tennis played silently on television. Terrible modern pop music played quietly on the radio.

The bartender produced the drinks in record time because we three were the only customers.

I was writing a preposterous erotic novella about tennis that had a Gothic-looking woman wearing a black macrame tennis dress seduce her bronzed instructor in the ball shed. There was a lot of dialogue about “strokes.”

The couple slammed the shots and then hugged and laughed. He ordered another shot but she declined.

It was 11:30 on a Saturday morning during Spring Break.

“I’m only slightly hungover,” he told the bartender.

The couple had until 1:00 pm to pack up their camp site at nearby Fort Stevens State Park. The man recounted the couple’s camping exploits to the bartender: fishing, clamming, drinking, fighting, drinking, pissing off their neighbors.

He also said, “I did write two chapters for my book.”

WHAT?!!!!!!!!

An OTA man camping and drinking in a tent in OTA country managed to write two chapters of his book? And his woman was there with him? And they fought and clammed? And they might have even had drunken sleeping bag sex?

What book? It had to be fiction! What genre?

I had to read the chapters. Now! It was my prerogative as chief (and only) chronicler of OTA life. Was this sauced son-of-a-bitch writing the Great Oregon Tavern Age Novel? Was I going to have kick his ass to forestall his OTA book coming out before mine? I bet he didn’t even use words like “forestall!” He’d probably never heard of Ken Kesey!

Enough was enough. I stood up to buy him and his old lady more shots. And more shots. I’d drain the well for them.

They’d miss their checkout deadline. He’d drink too much and perhaps become so addled he’d never write again. He might even die. His old lady wouldn’t know what to do with the manuscript and she’d start a fire in the wood stove with a secret masterpiece.

The couple thanked the bartender and got up to leave. They kissed, hugged, clasped hands and skipped right past me.

I watched them leave and went back to writing about tennis, sort of.

(If you found this post enjoyable, thought provoking or enlightening, please consider supporting a writer at work by making a financial contribution to this blog or by purchasing an NSP book.)

Veracity in Fact and Fiction Writing Workshop in Astoria

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Writers:

Below is the information for the next workshop for Saturday, June 2, in Astoria.

The novelist and essayist E.L. Doctrow famously wrote: “There is no fiction or nonfiction as we commonly understand the distinction: there is only narrative.” Bob Dylan sang: “All the truths in the world add up to one big lie.”

Were Doctrow and Dylan correct? What role do facts and truth play in nonfiction and fiction? What is verity in storytelling all about? What about personal myth and memory? Can someone remember something that happened, write about it, and the narrative not conform with the factual record? What about lying or embellishing in nonfiction writing? What about wholesale invention of facts in historical fiction or Hollywood screenwriting? Many writers of memoir feel they have a larger story to tell in their books and don’t feel bound by journalism guidelines. What about the writer who wants to motivate readers to act upon climate change or the inhumanity of the justice system and might need to massage the truth here and there? Can the presentation of metaphor in nonfiction writing represent the real truth of a story? What about the poet who rails against clearcutting in verse and never actually visited a clearcut and stood in its devastation? Is the poem phony? Is the poet a phony? What is journalism in the age of the Internet? What’s fake news?

Join author, editor, publisher and writing instructor Matt Love, Saturday, June 2, for a “Veracity in Fact and Fiction” writing workshop in Astoria that will dive deep into the age-old challenges, questions, dilemmas and obligations writers face (or don’t face) when writing memoirs, fiction, essays, scripts poems, social media posts, even journalism, the latter the supposed paragon of veracity but in recent times under withering assault.

“Many writers struggle with editorial ethics when narrating their stories and openly wonder about the nature of truth. Others don’t bat an eye about fabrication,” said Love. “It is a probably a healthy thing for aspiring and established writers to engage with these issues of veracity and this workshop provides the perfect opportunity.”

In the workshop, Love will guide participants through a series of writing prompts, surveys, short readings and discussions that compel writers to examine their time-honored or newly acquired beliefs on the rules and responsibilities of truth-telling with their words, if indeed, there are any rules and responsibilities.

The workshop runs from 10:00 a.m. to 1:00 p.m. in Astoria in a private home. The class costs $65 and will cap at 15 participants. Participants will pay at the beginning of the workshop. Scholarships are also available. Barter is accepted as well. Email Love to register.

On Being Alone

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Several years ago, I was walking along the seashore with Sonny the old husky when the most important reoccurring question of my life decided to ask itself again: why do I crave being alone with my dog on the beach?

Now that my dog is dead, going on almost two years, and I have fought with all my might to ward off the darkest, unconstitutional corners of American isolation, what is it about being alone, not loneliness, but solitude that I still crave? According to some experts, I am sick, deeply sick, for desiring solitude and believing that on occasion my best friends come from nature, not humanity.

Many times, I have felt that if I could satisfactorily answer the question about my craving, it might bring to light something I probably should know about myself. I might also share the answer in hope that it encourages more people to at least attempt cultivating moments of quiet solitude in their lives. There is so much noise and social media groupthink in American culture that the simple act of being alone—temporarily or for long a duration—can serve as an antidote. Sometimes by not talking with other people, you begin listening.

I do not typically eschew human encounters. Sometimes they cannot be avoided. Over the years, I’ve had many random wonderful and mysterious interactions with people on Oregon’s beaches. They’ve taught me a thing or two and I’ve written many words on the topic.

But the perfect crystalline moments have always occurred when I don’t encounter a single human or utter a single word. It was just me, the husky, now Bonnie and Clyde, the ocean, the river, the rain, the rolling of my mind in concert with the waves, the meandering of my mind in flow with the current, the inevitable act of simultaneously emptying my mind and filling it up with creativity. I write millions of words to better humanity and enact millions of scenarios to become a better human being while I am alone at the beach or on the river with Bonnie and Clyde.

I am not sick as a result. On the contrary, I am well, fit in body, mind and spirit and getting stronger every day.

(If you found this post enjoyable, thought provoking or enlightening, please consider supporting a writer at work by making a financial contribution to this blog or by purchasing an NSP book.)

Tennis On My Mind

NSP Meditations, Sports , , ,

I’m not sure why, but tennis keeps infiltrating my mind I’ve watched tennis film documentaries and read tennis books. I see tennis metaphors everywhere. I haven’t played in years but want to pick up the game that was once a major part of my life.

In recent months, I’ve written about tennis in poetry, fiction and memoir. Here are some excerpts:

Poem:

Most of these courts are gone now,

gone to seed, skateparks and the smartphone,

They’re never coming back,

but I am grateful I met you that way.

Short Story:

Several weeks ago, Chet and Tricia had driven to Portland in her vintage brown Pinto and hit ten thrift stores and it had been the best fun time of his life. After three stops, patterns emerged: the stores were full of wooden tennis rackets, many screwed in their presses, and also full of tennis instruction books, many never opened. Further patterns emerged: one racket model dominated—the Jack Kramer Autograph; one instruction book dominated—The Inner Game of Tennis. Jack bought a Kramer in mint condition for $5 and a heavily annotated The Inner Game of Tennis for $1.

Chet barely cracked the book and was certain the it would not end up in his paper’s bibliography. But now, The Inner Game of Tennis rested in Chet’s hands during a changeover with Chet behind love-6, love-5. He opened it at random and read one of the underlined passages, “Observe how you feel if you fail.” He turned to another page, “Only when the mind is still is one’s peak performance reached.” Then another, “It is a painful process to fight one’s way out of a deep mental groove.” And finally, “Let the flower grow.”

Short story:

Once tennis reigned as America’s number one recreational sport. Now, it was pretty much dead all across the country. In the 70s, 35 million men and women took up the game, indoors, outdoors, city courts, private clubs, back yards, taking lessons, playing singles, doubles, mixed doubles, (oh the mixed doubles with strangers!) wearing shorts and skirts and panties, headbands, wristbands, velour pullovers, drinking white wine, smoking grass and swapping partners. Was there anything sexier in the history of American sporting life?

Memoir:

In my freshmen year, Oregon City belonged in the Wilco League with schools like Lakeridge, Lake Oswego, and Tigard, some of the best white collar tennis schools in the state. There was really no such thing as a best blue collar tennis school.

These schools had the best courts in the state, all newly surfaced with crisp nets. All their players were club members and played year round with professional coaches, traveling to matches around the region. All their players had multiple rackets and wore the finest Fila and Rossignol European apparel and tennis shoes. They had harems of teenage girls at their matches, where they routinely defeated us 6-0, 6-0 in 45 minutes or less, and that included the warm up. Once, the number one player from Tigard pulled up in a convertible sports car, an MG I think, and left the motor idling outside the court, won his match in a matter of minutes, and then drove away with his super model girlfriend, feathered hair somewhat blowing in the breeze.

It was a peculiar feeling getting your ass kicked every match, right out there in public, inside a galvanized fence. I did cry after one particular humiliation. There was just no way to beat them, let alone compete. They had it all and often laughed at us and our cheap gear and terrible form. I mean, we had player who whiffed first and second serves for the strangest double faults in tennis history!

Then, divine intervention from the merciful Gods of Tennis who wore nothing but all white. They surely saw us suffer and moved heaven and earth. It must have been Arthur Ashe, the compassionate graceful one, not the other American tennis assholes of my youth.

Oregon City switched leagues, out of the powerful old Wilco League and into the newly-established Timber Valley League. The Timber Valley League was comprised of rural Clackamas County timber and farming towns such as Molalla, Silverton, Estacada, Sandy, and Sweet Home.

Just like that, Oregon City was the best team in the league. I went something like 53-4 the next three years and made it to state my senior year, in doubles, where I choked in the first round, and never played competitive tennis again.

Memoir:

I used to play tennis with my dogs. We went through a lot of balls.

Memoir:

In high school, I took her on a date to play tennis, or rather I would try to teach her how to play tennis, and she whiffed on every single shot. I didn’t know if that was charming or a turn-off.

(If you found this post enjoyable, thought provoking or enlightening, please consider supporting a writer at work by making a financial contribution to this blog or by purchasing an NSP book.)

The Teaching Maxims of Karl Love

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My father, Karl Love, taught masterfully for 35 years in public and private schools in Oregon and Brazil.

He retired from the classroom in 1991 but it was my good fortune to teach alongside Dad at Oregon City High School during his last job. I was in my second year of teaching and felt unsure of my future in the profession. I had neither a coherent teaching philosophy nor a defined idealism. One day, I overheard Dad discussing an indifferent student with a struggling colleague. “Don’t prop up mush,” he advised. I wrote this succinct phrase down and began compiling all of Dad’s maxims on teaching because they taught me how to teach with efficiency, integrity and passion. Over the years, I kept adding to my list after each new maxim emerged from one of our many conversations on the art of teaching. To me, these maxims provided a concise and crystallizing model for dynamic and timeless teaching for any grade level. They are organic. They are in no way academic. They don’t belong to ideologues or consultants. They are utterly practical. They separate the strong teachers from the weak and my father was the most effortlessly strong teacher I have ever observed. They are not a panacea but they do inspire reflection and conversation about the craft of teaching. In 2011, I published 300 copies of a letterpress edition of The Teaching Maxims of Karl Love and sold or distributed them here and there, mostly to teachers. I have seven left. Recently, as I have spent more time with my father, and availed myself of his passion for poetry, I thought I would publish the maxims on the blog and let more people read them. In a way, they are poetry.

Disrupt the disruptor in student misbehavior scenarios.

Don’t prop up mush.

Never back a student into a corner. Always give a student a dignified way out of a confrontation. Most will take it.

Engage. Engage. Engage.

Good teaching flows from 90-percent preparation and presentation, 10-percent evaluation.

Any teacher without a coherent philosophy of teaching isn’t a teacher.

Beware of teachers who are martyrs.

Put your best energy into the show.

Gadgets don’t teach. Teachers teach.

There is no substitute for a teacher in love with their subject, in front of their students.

Quote: (To students) I will never waste your time.

(Borrowing from Confucius) It is immoral to teach a child who doesn’t want to learn, but every child wants to learn something.

Weak teachers need canned discipline systems.

Weak teachers issue detentions.

Teachers who issue detentions should administer them.

Quote: (To students) I have only one rule: We respect each other.

The principal should be the best teacher in the building.

Always rig a classroom for success. Enable every student to enjoy genuine success. Do not contrive phony success.

Occasionally give students the impression that something extraordinary happened randomly in the classroom, when in fact, the teacher orchestrated it behind the scenes.

Keep your room clean. Make the custodian’s job easy.

Never talk disparagingly about colleagues in front of other students. Never allow students to talk disparagingly about colleagues in front of you.

Good teachers are never bored.

All I need is piece of chalk and a slate and I can teach.

Never argue with a kid.

When a faculty meeting begins turning to shit, go into your creative mind.

Never use profanity in the presence of a student.

A good teacher never really leaves the job behind.

If you’re not exhausted at the end of a teaching day, you haven’t taught.

Learn to sample grade.

If you teach more than two periods of the same course during a day, teach all of them differently.

I don’t care if a kid comes in naked or has green hair. I will not judge him. I will teach him.

Want to improve public education? Choose the five worst teachers everyone in the building knows are the worst and have them shot at an assembly.

A well-written test will teach as well as evaluate.

If you can’t get fired up for the first day of school, quit.

If you don’t want to be the teacher a student never forgets, get out.

Avoid the purple flood (a reference to the old ditto machines).

Worksheets are for losers.

Good teachers never post rules.

Forts and Photographs

Driftwood Forts, NSP Meditations , , ,

I stopped building a new driftwood fort at the South Jetty. It would, of course, never be finished. I sat on a chainsawed round of exotic hardwood and ate my lunch of pizza and apple. I gazed over the rocks and down to the beach.

A small gathering of sandpipers were doing their sandpiper thing in the surf. My mind returned to a scene that occurred on this beach several days ago, when a friend and I sat on a driftlog and watched a large, unprecedented in size-gathering of sandpipers fly together with astonishing, enveloping, acrobatic flair. We were utterly mesmerized and pitied the people in their trucks who missed it because they were speeding down the beach.

Later, my friend told me had witnessed a murmuration in the flight, its technical name, one of the few times I remember a technical term in nature actually doing justice in describing something beautiful in nature.

I looked up to the fort near the dune that I started constructing three months ago. I saw a family checking it out and posing for photographs.

It occurred to me that my driftwood forts have appeared in thousands, if not millions of photographs the past 21 years, posted on social media platforms, shared between family, friends, missing city-enslaved lovers, some even printed out and glued into scrapbooks and photo albums. Yes, photo albums!

Think of that. That’s probably my greatest anonymous contribution to inspiring wonder and joy in lives of visitors to Oregon’s publicly-owned beaches. And I’ll keep building forts until the day I die. In fact, I might die building one. (If a certain person reading this is with me when I expire, just roll me inside the fort, douse me with the whiskey we brought, and light it all up.)

One wonders: does there exist another artist in Oregon history whose work has appeared in more photographs than mine? That’s quite a question and quite unanswerable. I’ll never know. It hardy matters. Watching that family stop their pickup and exiting to go investigate the fort is all the reward I need.

(If you found this post enjoyable, thought provoking or enlightening, please consider supporting a writer at work by making a financial contribution to this blog or by purchasing an NSP book.)

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