PRESENTING!: David Madden

David Madden
I first met David Madden in a poetry class he taught at LSU; I can't remember the years now, since I've been here in my mountain cove almost five--so I met him seven? eight years ago?

Well, Madden strutted in the room and immediately challenged us with a swagger and a gleam in those eyes - a gleam that was parts excitement and madness! yes! it's true! I nicknamed him "Mad Madden" - not sure if he ever heard me call him that....ha!

Oh at first I didn't like our David Madden. At first I thought him insufferable. One day in class I even threw down my pencil and said, "Gawdammit!" while the young students stared wide-eyed at my audacity, even though they later said they wanted to throw down their pencils and curse too (laughing), and then when I arrived home I shot off an email to him full of just what I thought about his ...his...pomposity!....oh, it was something. Being an "older" student, I was crankier, er, bolder, than the young ones. So, when grades came out, I was afraid I'd receive back a "bad" grade because I'd challenged him. Oh, but I didn't know our David Madden. Didn't know the true man he was (and still is). I received the grade I expected to receive for the work done (and it was a good grade, too), not some grade dolled out in spite because I said what was on my mind and gave him whatfor right back. This was not the man Madden is and was...he has and had too much integrity for those kinds of shenanigans.

Somehow, I think we both faced each other and came away changed, for the better. At least I did, and I wonder if somehow my challenges changed him in some small way. All I know is that his poetry class opened up a world of image-thought that I'd never experienced before. I know his class changed the way I looked at poetry (and I'm not a poet), but it also changed the way I look at prose and at life and music and the world. One of my favorite classes was when he turned out the lights, put on an album, and then asked us to just write down word-thoughts that came to mind without thinking about them. He did the same thing with images on the screen: just write down the immediate thought that comes when you see the image(hear the music) without thinking about it, don't overthink, just write, and later we'd take these images and fashion them into a poem: wonderful. He also forced us in front of the class to read aloud our poetry -argh! I hated it. I shook, I trembled, but by gawd by end of semester, I could stand in front of people and talk/read! We did a show at the local B&N, and I stood up there and did my thing without hardly a tremble. I can still do this, read in front of a group. I even credit my being able to act in Bat Boy the Musical with Madden's forcing us to get up in front of a group and read, and read with passion and dignity and Life.

I consider that class, and David Madden, one of the best classes I ever attended at LSU. That "dislike" I felt for Madden changed to respect and then later to a sort of friendship (and I say "sort of" in the way teachers and students stay in touch every so often to see what's up and to say hello and to say "hey, teacher, guess what? this happened for me and I credit your class....").

Madden isn't just a teacher, he has a full full full resume as a playwright/author/critic/poet, so when he wrote a blurb for me, I was astounded. First, I was astounded he took the time to read my stuff (as I'm sure so many people ask him to read and blurb and do do do), then I was astounded he felt as he did about it, for I trembled he wouldn't like my work. For Madden can be Tough -- because he loves language and words and beauty (and I think this is part of what made me look at him differently - because I have that love of language and words too and I realize how tough I can be when it comes to the writing way).

From what I understand, Madden is retiring from teaching. I hate that. I hate that students won't ever have the urge to throw their pencils down and yell and fire off angry emails in a fit of passion! I hate that he won't be in front of a class challenging students to do what makes them feel uncomfortable. I hate that he won't have a student like me who maybe challenged him back in some small way. I hate that he won't turn out the lights and put on music and allow his students minds to wander places deep within. I even hate he won't be there to open his door, during his class, and scream out to the rude students outside making noise, "SHUT UP! CAN'T YOU SEE WE ARE HAVING CLASS IN HERE....S..H...U...T ...... U.... P!" Oh! I am so glad I had the experience of Madden - I'll never forget him or that class.

Here is what he said:

Kathryn Magendie’s style—and for me style is everything, character, setting the fictive experience—is immediately arresting, engaging, and flows with the reader in its embrace thourhg all the episodes, moving from humor, to lyricism, to melancholy, to pathos. Readers will hear about the voice in TENDER GRACES and rush out to buy and listen to that voice, familiar and yet with tonalities not yeat heard, igniting delight never before quite felt.

Thank you David Madden for your role in my life. (I have the sudden urge to say "O Captain! My Captain!...." *smiling*)

Wake up lil Kathryn Wake up! do do do dodo Wake up Lil Kathryn Wake up!

A covey of partridges

A muster or ostentation of peacocks

A nest, nide (nye), or bouquet of pheasants

A string of ponies

A pod of porpoises

A covey or bevy of quail

A nest of rabbits

An unkindness of ravens

A murder of crows

and they were all outside my window this morning at first light shouting at me to GET UP! *laughing* okay, maybe not all of those things...teehee.

Just thought I've give a little update on my progress. First, tomorrow I need to have another "PRESENTING!" as I was off-track due to the wedding trip, etc. And as soon as I have some wedding photos, I'll share some of them!

Remember the 30,000 words I tossed out of VK2? Well, I've replaced them with up to 20,000 words; I think. I didn't realize I'd written that many more, as some of what I've been doing is going over the first few chapters that had been written soon after Tender Graces (VK1) was completed. It didn't seem as if I was making that kind of progress in actual new words. Maybe I've miscounted. No matter - whatever the case, I now have 60,000 words and Vk's voice is coming through loud and clear.

The other day, I also read through a third novel that is "completed," but needs some tweaking. I wanted to see if Sweetie could be a possible contender for BelleBook's interest. The Affliction of Sweetie is a different voice from VK, a different kind of novel, but with the same kinds of themes: Home, Place, Belonging, Mothers, Daughters, (weak but gentle)Fathers. Sweetie is set in this area, in Western North Carolina, in a fictional town I called (so far) Big Elk Valley.

I sent out a short story the other day, as well. I've not done anything with my short stories and essays in a while, so I took one out, read it over, and then decided to send it out to a magazine. The last place this story went I never heard back - but, it was a "Big Ole Literary Magazine In The Sky" so I was shooting a bit high....why not? However, honestly, big magazine--little magazine: makes not much difference to me -- I love them all. This story, however, is a little dark, so I don't know. It's funny how different my short stories can be from my novels. "Soft White Lies" is from a male point of view, too....I've not many of those, maybe three.

I went a-visiting y'all some last night and so loved seeing your places again, even if I had to hurry by. I am not pleased with the battery in this Dell! I was happily visiting, unplugged from the electrical outlet, and before I knew it my computer blipped off: battery gone. Harumph! It wasn't long at all! All this technology and Dell can't make a battery that lasts for a decent amount of time? Ah well, other than that, I'm pleased with my 'puter.

So: 60,000 words on VK2. VK1 is out there, doing whatever it is doing and I've been pleased with the reviews and responses (more than pleased) - and I even had someone email me to say they'd called in sick from work just to finish my novel! OMG! what a compliment! I won't say more on that, since I wouldn't want to get them in trouble...but that made me smile. I have a short story out there in submits, and I think I'll send another this weekend out somewhere; I woke up thinking about Petey's story "Tastes Like Proud." I have the third novel of Sweetie in my "Is this something that is publishable?" file. I am feeling happy: I get to do the love of my life, Writing. Yay!

What are your weekend plans? Where will you go? what will you see? Or will you be home relaxing? This is Saturday - I remember Friday nights and Saturdays when I used to work in an office, how I adored Friday nights because it meant I had all day Saturday off (Sundays were a bit of a downer because I knew I had to go to work the next day *laugh*). And Glorious Saturday! No Work! Now, Saturday is much like the other days, for I work at home. I forget about the Magical Friday Night and Saturday --- is it like that for you? If you work outside the home Monday - Friday? That there is a Relaxed Feel to Friday Night and then Glorious Saturday?

She's Chuck-ie, she's beautiful, and she's mine....

Imagine me in a rocking chair, and I have a glass of sweet tea (Swate tae) held out to you. My own glass of (not) sweet tea (yes, I know, I’m Southern, but I don’t drink swate tae-but we can pretend) is sweaty in my hands. I pat the chair beside me, and you sit down. We both begin to rock and sip, and I say, “Let me tell you about my Maw Maw.” And you say, “Who’s Maw Maw?” And I reply, “Her name was Mary Eunice, and, as far as I know, she was born in Tennessee—where my father is from.” She’s the inspiration for Tender Graces Mee Maw.

We called her Maw Maw, because that’s what she wanted, and Maw Maw usually got what she wanted. I wish I had learned more about her, but in that way that children and young people can be, I only saw her as this adult who either wore on my nerves, gave me presents, or later, handed me fodder for stories about crazy family members. Too Bad. There was more to Maw Maw than I’ll ever know, and as I get older, I long to know all her stories. Too late--she's gone; so let that be a lesson to ye out there with grannies and granpaws--get the stories. Listen.

My first memory of Maw Maw was when she gave me a doll, my first doll I’d ever owned. In this day of kids having more toys than they know what to do with, it may not seem like much, but, when I was little, I didn’t have many toys—and no doll. Little girls dream of dolls, and I did, literally. And when I’d wake up and my arms were empty, I’d wish with all my little girl heart that somehow my dream would come true and I’d receive a doll. That is almost pukingly sweet—but true.

I remember so clearly in a way I don't remember many many things clearly how I lay in a small bed, and the door opens, and there stands Maw Maw, large and loud and so There. She held a box in her hand, and before she was entirely in the door, she was screeching that she had a present for her baby. Maw Maw’s voice was this screech-owl mixture of Tennessee-Ark-La-Tex (because she lived in the Arklatex for many years), and the volume was always on high. She burst into the room, and sucked up all the air. My parents moved out of the way as she made a bee-line for me. I was her favorite—something that would be both gratifying and terrifying.

When she handed me the doll, I was overcome with child-joy. I hugged her, the doll, not Maw Maw, and thought how I’d play with her, sleep with her, hold her everywhere I went. Maw Maw said, “That there doll is for my baby! My precious baby! Oh, see how she loves the doll. She loves her Maw Maw, too, don’t you, Kathy?” And Maw Maw enveloped me in her breasts, where I became lost for a week and they had to send out a search party.

I said, I’m sure I said, “Thank yew, Maw Maw. I wove dis baby doll.” Surely I did.

My mother, whom hadn’t adopted me yet and was a “step mother,” stood by, I can almost see her, in Maw Maws ample shadow, looking on, and thinking, “That doll is too fancy. What was she thinking?”

For the doll was fancy. She had a mink coat, high-heeled shoes, pearl necklace, shimmery shiny dress, soft headband, curly hairdo—AND!—make up! She was gorgeous, and she was mine.

After Maw Maw left, Mother plucked the doll from my grasp, not understanding my want for a doll, how I had to have one, needed one, or I would surely die. She plucked the doll and put it away “for later” because it was too fancy-shmancy for a little girl to dirty up. I don’t remember crying, and I probably didn’t, because I seldom cried. I asked my parents, “Did I cry when Momma gave me up? Did I cry later? Did I ever cry?” and Mother said, “No, you just had these huge eyes that looked so sad.”

The doll is with me now. Obviously, at some point, Mother gave her back to me and I loved her a bit too much. She’s lost some of her jewelry, and her shoes are gone, and her dress is a bit worn down. And later, Mother kept her for me again, for all the years I was gone away from home, kept her safe, just as she did when I was a teeny girl. I have her now. Good Man has named her “Chuckie” and one night put a knife with ketchup on it in her hand and stood her where I would come upon her and scream—but instead I laughed.

Maw Maw had all the good intentions that grandmothers do, and if she had come back and seen the doll placed away, she’d have screeched and screamed at the injustice of it all, and how her granddaughter was sorely mistreated, and how her precious baby didn’t deserve such an insult. My mother and grandmother would butt heads over the years, mentally butt and shove and push against each other, until neither gave up.

Every time I look at that doll, I think of Maw Maw and all the missed opportunities to know her better. Even as she lay dying, I didn’t think to ask her questions about her past. I didn’t ask her about how she was ahead of her time in so many ways.

Yes, Maw Maw picked me as her favorite, and that’s why I was able to go on the trip to Tennessee- for the chicken kill, but that’s another Maw Maw story for another time.

Almost Summer Breeze, Made Her Feel Fine.....

A Woman Smiles in Her Sleep With Remembrances...

I hear the sway of the trees before I see them. The wind makes known its presence without arrogance. I appreciate. I think that I am holding my breath in awe at the very thought of a tree, the wind, and me; but no, my chest rises and falls as it has since I first took that gasping cry at birth. My heart beats without my asking it to. Living without even trying.

I hear the sighs of those around me, human and animal. They are alive; I am alive; and why? Question of the ages, question without answer – yes – the unanswerable question of the living breathing me. Human is the only one asking. I slow my steps, barely daring to move, savoring the moment of hyper-awareness of all that is around me—how lucky I feel at this moment! How alive and real! I am aware of my arms and legs and the organs of my body and what a miracle I am. I want to cry, not because I am sad, but because I have lived, every day of my life, and even when I thought I did not want to live the next day came and I was glad to awaken.

Somewhere in some city in some neighborhood a child laughs and soon, when the days are longer and filled with heat, an ice cream truck will play its song, one that has never changed in all the years I remember it. I have a sudden recollection of little girl me waiting at the chilly window as I hold out my pudgy hand for an ice treat, while my other hand grips sweaty nickels to hand over to Mr. Ice Cream Man—a fair trade, the imperishable for the perishable, even steven: Life at that moment is completely fair and I know it, the ice cream man knows it, and all the kids waiting their turn know it. I lick my treat and traces of it run down my chin, my arms. My feet are colored green from just-mown grass. The sun descends quickly. The clock ticks. The dark barks. I am me. The moon pale-washes my face, gentle touch from the ancient orb of mystery. My mother calls, “Time to come in.” I run home.

I am a woman fully grown, wishing for a cold treat and summer green feet.

The greatest love of alllll, is not always easy to achieeevvee (but I love it anyway)

A Woman Once Wrote in A Column:


“Hard days, lots of work, no money, too much silence. Nobody’s fault. You chose it.”—Bill Barich

At a conference, I’m approached by a woman who’d sat next to me while an author spoke about his writing life. She says, “I’m writing a novel!”

I say, “How exciting! Are you having fun with it?”

“There’s lots of intrigue and romantic situations, but it’s not a romance or mystery, and anyway…I want to ask what you think about my chances.”

“Chances for what?”

“For getting it published.”

“Well, I don’t know.” I smile my encouragement, ask, “Have you finished writing it?”

She taps her chin. “What kind of money do you think I’ll get? I need about one-hundred thousand to start.”

I blink. Blink again. “One hundred thousand dollars?”

She grins with fervent hope, says, “I don’t want to get too invested in it until I know for sure what I’ll make, and I figure that amount’s a good start, right?”

“Well, anything can happen, but—

“—look at Grisham, lives like a King, right?”

“Well, you should write it first; that’s the fun part.”

“I want to make sure I can quit my job.” She claps her hands together. “And then I can go on tour, stay in nice hotels, talk to people about how I came up with the idea. It’s so exciting to be a writer, isn’t it?”

Should I pop the sparkly bubble that hangs over her eager head? Tell her the truth? How she needs to actually write her novel, then revise it and revise it and revise it and revise it; and once this is accomplished, begin the query process—write a compelling letter to agents or small press publishers explaining why her novel is ten stories above all the one-story novel queries that are piled upon their desks? If an agent is acquired, then the agent must convince an editor to take it on, and the editor must convince the publisher to publish it (or if the small press publisher takes it on, they must convince their committee to accept it). Finally, if the publisher publishes it, the author will for the most part have to market the book herself, as publishing houses rarely foot the bill for a grand book tour.


Should I further mention how the author must prepare for financial disappointment? That unless one is catapulted to the best sellers list and Oprah’s Book Club and a big movie deal, money will not flood the bank, but instead trickle in languidly, or even eventually evaporate away if the work is not done to keep things fresh and alive?

Meanwhile, the author must glue her butt in the chair and write another book, one as good as or better than the last, and convince everyone the next book should be published. Sisyphus at last rolls the rock to the top of the hill, only to have to do it again and again.

Yet, this writing life is mine. I chose it. I write with the knowledge I may never be a financial success, much less a literary one. I write with love and care and commitment. John Steinbeck said, “You start out putting words down and there are three things—you, the pen, and the page. Then gradually the three things merge until they are one and you feel about the page as you do about your arm. Only you love it more than you love your arm.” Steinbeck has reached into my heart and pulled out the perfect words to describe this beautiful madness of mine.

I tell the woman, “I wish you all the best.”

She stops smiling. “That’s it?”

I level my gaze. “Except this, just write it. That’s where I’d start. Write the words you love, and the rest will work itself out one way or the other.”

She turns and walks away. I go to my room, open my laptop, and sit in silence, except for the musical tapping of my fingers against the keys. I stop a moment to wonder if she will write her novel and if it will give her everything she desires. I hope so. Then I get back to my work and forget everyone and everything but the creating.

(image google image: timetowrite.blogs.com)

Shake that healthy butt....

Oh friends, I am tired and have so much to catch up on; however, the trip was lovely. My one regret was that I didn't stay a little longer - it was too short a visit. And, since I was so busy with wedding things, I didn't get to see Deb Shucka! (Deb- next time I come we will try to do this again.)

While in Oregon, Angie Gumbo Writer texted me to let me know my review of Tender Graces and the interview - both done by Greg Langley of the Baton Rouge Advocate were in the Sunday paper. Since they are also online, I will put the links here as well. He put me at ease and is a dear man; I felt quite special to have a review and interview by someone so well-respected.

Interview of Kat by Greg Langley
Review of Tender Graces by Greg Langley

I have to run -- I need to get the Rose & Thorn Newlsetter out. I need to have the drawing for the book give-away--I will do that today and let you all know the winner by tomorrow. I need to work on VK2. I need to unpack the rest of my stuff. So many Need To's - good lawd!

Here are some photos taken from the airplane. I'll have photos and stories of the wedding soon - it was wonderful! The bagpiper was perfect, the kilts, the wedding vows, the Celtic handfast, Kat getting up and making a fool of herself to "Baby Got Back" at the reception (laughing), etc...more later!

I flying on a jet plane, and soon will be home again....

And One Day, A Woman Looked Out Of The Window of The Plane And Then Soon Arrived Home After A Trip Far Away from Her Mountains...

My friends and family are scattered across the US. But that is how it has to be, since this mountain, this town, this cove at Killian Knob is where I belong. The mountains called me home.

My father was a restless man; probably still is. I've inherited his restless nature, which is all the more stunning to me that I am Home at last. Something here, something grabbed hold of me when I visited here, something took hold of my imagination, and my secret innards. The soles of my feet feel right stepping across this ancient land. I breathe in the air and it fills my lungs full, expanding outward in satisfaction. I expel the air reluctantly. My eyes see and see and see. My ears hear and hear and hear. My mouth speaks no words, but all is understood.

My father was a restless man, and that restless nature settled in my marrow. My synapses toss and turn and flicker and shimmy. I understand him in ways I couldn’t as a child looking up up up at his handsome face. Now I want to tell him that Home feels good. Home feels right. Home isn’t always where you were birthed screaming and red-faced (although that place is always as a birthmark upon one’s heart—as my West Virginia has on mine). Home may be where you are now, Daddy. There is that cliché: Home is where the heart is. It goes further than that. It goes deep into the marrowed bone. It is the place that is Right. It is where one steps out and breathes in the air and thinks, “I’m Home. I’m finally Home.”

My restless nature, the one I inherited from my restless father, finds its outlet, still. It finds places in stories and characters. It finds places in my pacing about the little log house—touching this, touching that. It finds places in my sleep, for my dreams are wild and uncontrollable at times. It finds a way. I do not mind it now. Now that I am Home.

My father is becoming an old man now. I am a middle-aged woman. We defy it, even without trying. I study his younger photographs – the ones before me, and I wonder how he imagined his life, and if in his imaginings I was somehow there. And when I arrived, did he study my fingers and toes and think, “I had a hand in this. I am part of the reason she is here. I am a piece of this creation. I am a number in her equation.”

Home. It took many years for me to find Home. For me to relax into my skin. For me to let out a sigh and in that sigh all the old disappointments and fears left my body – the air from my sigh was no longer wanted – it was expelled – and the mountain winds carried it away. I drew in new fresh air. Home air.

Home!

(google image )