On Writing: The Art of Story Blog

My kids always want to know what the movie is.

“It’s a story about two gangs,” I say.  Maybe I should tell them it’s a famous story by William Shakespeare and adapted by the great geniuses of the American Musical Theatre; Stephen Sondheim, Jerome Robbins, Arthur Laurents, Leonard Bernstein, with the film version directed by Robert Wise, who also directed “The Sounds of Music,” but they’re excited it’s about gangs.  I decide to let it play.

The Jets walk into frame, snapping their fingers.  The kids snap their fingers.  Bernardo and the Sharks enter the scene; music and dance tell the story of these rival gangs.

My boys look around at each other.  What?  Huh?

“This is gay.”

I decided to show “West Side Story” instead of “The Sound of Music” because there have been fights breaking out all over the school recently.  Maybe this story will help keep the kids safe over the summer.  We get all the way through Act One, up to the “America” number, and we break for a discussion.

“What are the two gangs are fighting about?”

“Territory.”

“Right.  So, when somebody wins, what will they get?”

“Territory.”

“You mean, they’ll own a nice piece of real estate that will increase in value over time?”

“No…”

“So what do you get if you win?”

“Nothing.”

Now we’re getting somewhere.

“So guys, who do you think is going to win?”

“The Sharks.”

“Definitely the Sharks.”

“Oh yeah, the Sharks.”

Most likely, they’re rooting for the Sharks because the Sharks are people of color.  I know I’m rooting for the Sharks because of George Chakiris.

Over the next few days, we make it through the whole story.  They moan through the ballads “Maria” and “There’s a Place for Us.”  Don’t even ask what happens when Natalie Wood sings, “I feel pretty and witty and gay.”   But the story grabs hold and my kids follow along.  In spite of themselves, they want to know if Tony and Maria will get together (and also to see if the Sharks will win).

William Shakespeare reaches out through time, grabs up a bunch of musical geniuses along the way, and inspires my kids.

That is so gay.

Dear Hawaii Ohana,

Deep South Publishing Company is producing a book of personal stories about special places in Hawaii, written by people who live in and love Hawai’i.   I am looking for stories, and by “story” I mean: the transformation of a character (you) as a result of events in the plot.  The setting you choose should be a place that changed you on a profound level.  The book is not meant  to be a travel guide, but rather a personal journey of Hawai’i and what our islands offer on a spiritual level.  Or, it could be just plain funny.   2,000 word limit.  All profits will benefit children’s programs at our beloved Palama Settlement. Deadline: June 30, 2012.  Email submissions to margaretsouth@kidstalkstory.com; please make sure to type “Hawaii Story” into the subject line.

As you work on your story, feel free to browse the website for help with story structure.

Mahalo for your kokua. (See I haven’t forgotten!)

Warmest Aloha from the Peach State,

Margaret South

Frank and I assembled materials today.  We put together samples and all the supplies so 100 children could write thank you notes as part of their original book projects.  They each get a sheet of sky blue paper, an envelope, and a pretend stamp with the picture of a cat.  (They’ve already done their “Heroes” page and their “My Favorite Foods” page and most important, the “About the Author” page. )

It reminded me of Kids Talk Story in the very beginning when all the supplies would come in and each teacher would make up their packet for the semester.  Pens, bags, folders, white-out, templates, markers, colored pencils, even glitter pens.  What fun!  Really, if I started my company over today I would apply for a job in the warehouse.

When my sister was diagnosed with ALS, she asked me to go with her to The Emory Clinic, one of the top research facilities in the world. We met brilliant doctors and nurses and therapists and caregivers.  They inspired me and they made me wonder why I didn’t go into medicine.

A few days before Christmas, Dr. William Grist, also at Emory, removed a mass from my neck.  I’d had this dumb thing for 10 years and other doctors said it was too dangerous to operate because one wrong move could paralyze my facial nerve.  I would be maimed for life.  So there it stayed while I resorted to drug therapy which kept it from growing too much, and scared the heck out of Frank because it was depressing my immune system.  But Dr. Grist said he was up for it and since he was stoked, I figured, “What the heck?  Let’s go for it!”

He had the bloody thing out in an hour-and-a-half and I partied through Christmas on Oxycodone and Vodka (for the unfortunate result of this bad combination check out my FB post here known as “Socks on Drugs.”) Again, I marvel at the medical profession.  Wow, why didn’t I go into medicine?

Just the other day, I took Mom to the eye doctor where she’s getting these shots in one of her eyes because of mascular degeneration.  She’s been going by herself because on school days I’m in the classroom with my sister.  But she can’t tell me anything about what goes on there.

“Mom.  What do they say?  Are the shots working?”

“I can’t tell.  First  I can’t hear, and now I’m blind, too.”

“How long do you have to keep going?”

“I don’t know, they didn’t say.”

So I take matters in hand.  Determined to get some answers, I drive Mom into Macon and she gets her shot.  I ask the nurse to explain things.  She goes into detail about the whole procedure and how it works and why we don’t know for sure yet.

“So the next shot will be in six weeks,” she says.”

I nod my head as though I understand and I think there might be a glimmer?  But no.  I realize I have no idea what she’s talking about and I remember why I didn’t go into the medical profession in the first place.