by Mary Carroll Moore

That first phone call came on a busy day at work. I was preparing 700 stuffed cherry tomatoes for a catering job that night and here was a publisher on the phone asking if I would consider authoring a book. It would be based on my cooking school, which had just been written up in USA Today. Of course I said yes—who wouldn’t? I didn’t tell the publisher I knew nothing about organizing a book manuscript.

That was the early 1980s, when authors worked under the careful counsel of editors at publishing houses. Back then, we were coached, and lucky to be so. Times changed in the 1990s, houses shrank their staffs, and I was still authoring books. But I suddenly found myself completely at sea: my first contract for a memoir in hand, and no help with how to structure it.

Back then, writing classes didn’t teach structuring or organizing a book manuscript. I searched for any guidance on how such books were put together. What did you leave in? What did you leave out? And most important, how did you combine the organic flow of writing with the necessary scaffolding that made a book coherent?

Outlining had served me well in nonfiction. But with this new book—in the newly popular genre of memoir—even chapter 1 seemed impossible to write.

It embarrassed me, a published author, to give up, to renege on my book contract. Before I finally made that phone call, a friend rescued me by lending me her well-worn copy of Kenneth Atchity’s A Writer’s Time.

I’d never heard of Atchity. I was already good at time management. I needed book management.

“It’s not about time management,” my friend told me. “Read.”

Former director of the UCLA writing program, Atchity was one of the first to detail a two-part process of book creation. Natalie Goldberg delivered the first step in her “freewriting” exercises in Writing Down the Bones. Atchity took it further. He proposed that books demand two sides of the creative self, both the random and the linear. Freewriting lets us craft random “islands” of writing. Then when we’ve created sufficient “islands,” we form them into continents using a storyboard.

I somehow knew this was correct. It was an organic approach for the writing process with an organization technique—storyboards—for the structure. I knew storyboarding from my work as a hired consultant at publishing companies. Storyboards were routinely used by small presses to plan work-for-hire manuscripts that would be produced in-house. Could a storyboard really organize the unwieldy mess that was my memoir?

I devoured the first five chapters of A Writer’s Time, then using what I’d learned, drafted the complete memoir in 45 days. Thanks to my storyboard, chapter 1 flowed together beautifully—a profound relief. That first memoir was published in 1991 and is still in print.

Storyboarding became the glue that held my manuscripts together as I wrote more books in more genres. I liked its organization, simplicity, and logic. But I still wondered how to craft a storyboard to show versus tell. Most storyboards were event trackers, and they did not reveal the emotional arc of a book.

As I transitioned into the genres of memoir and fiction, which demand an emotional arc, I was noticing that strong events weren’t enough. And sending my characters into their heads to ruminate the meaning of those events was not effective. I needed to show emotion, not talk about it. But how could I take my beloved organization tool to the next level?

Another friend to the rescue: a screenwriting buddy shared her discovery of the three-act structure. A method born in Aristotle’s time, the three acts delivered something called rising and falling action. These movements in story are primarily outer events, but they can also reveal the inner story—the emotion or transformation beneath an outer event that gives that event its meaning. Vivian Gornick’s dense little book The Situation and the Story gives marvelous examples of this phenomenon in memoir. Gornick excerpts passages from well-known writers, including Joan Didion’s essay “In Bed,” about that writer’s persistent migraines, which taught me new ways to “search out the link between a narrative line and the wisdom that compels it,” as Gornick writes.

Combining storyboarding with the three-act structure, referring to Gornick’s prompts on how to reveal deeper meaning, my book-writing approach slowly evolved. If you’re curious to see for yourself, here’s a short video you can watch. It shares the method I use to organize a manuscript, the same one I teach in my book-writing classes at the Loft.

Mary teaches storyboarding: www.youtube.com/watch?v=pMhLvMJ_r0Y

In the end, books are all about organization, not just about sitting down and letting it flow. Good organization rescues us when we’re sinking into confusion about how to delve for meaning, it brings us ideas on how to infuse our manuscripts with emotion, and it gives us ways to structure outer events into a logical sequence that a reader can track.

That’s why storyboards work. They are an essential tool I wish I’d known about back in the 1980s (and I’m glad I know about now).

This essay originally appeared on A View from the Loft on March 7, 2011.

Mary Carroll Moore is the author of 13 published books in three genres, including the PEN/Faulkner Award–nominated novel Qualities of Light and the 2011 release Your Book Starts Here: How to Create, Craft, and Sell Your First Novel, Memoir, or Nonfiction Book. 

by Karin B. Miller

If the ladies would only realize that they are the torch-bearers of civilization, which, as the great philosopher Confucius has said, is the art of being civil, the world would be a more pleasant place to live in. (Book of Etiquette, 1923)

I can’t remember which volume in my large collection of turn-of-the-century etiquette guides first got me hooked. I only know that its unintended humor—not to mention sexism and classism—compelled me to search for more.

One hundred years ago, etiquette books proliferated—most filled with words of wisdom for young women. Subjects included what to wear (“Dress for comfort, not fashion”), what to say (“Never take a man to task about anything”), how to act (“Never laugh or talk loudly in public”), where to go (“Never visit unfavorable cabarets”), and much more.

Here’s a great definition from the Book of Etiquette (1923): “Etiquette will make you dignified. It will make your actions and speech refined, polished, impressive. It will make you a leader instead of a follower, a participant instead of a looker-on. It will open the doors of the highest society to you, make you immune to all embarrassment, enable you to conduct yourself with ease and confidence at all times, under all circumstances.” Phew. What young woman wouldn’t want to master etiquette?

Above all, the guides taught conformity, propriety, and rules for living—how to write letters, properly visit neighbors, and leave calling cards (the number of rules regarding calling cards alone is mind-boggling); which books to read (and to avoid); which household skills to learn; how to make conversation, behave at a dance, and meet, date, and wed young men. It was enough to make a girl’s head spin. 

A few bold voices of the era stood out, aiming not to keep women in their place but to help them recognize their own smarts and savvy. Take this example: “As a rule, women are better conversationalists than men, being endowed with a readier talent for repartee, a quicker wit, and a keener intuition of the fitness of things.” That’s a quote from 1891 in the Jenness Miller Monthly, a popular women’s magazine.

And this one from Tokology (1897) by Alice Bunker Stockham, a Chicago obstetrician and gynecologist: “The nation not only needs strong men but strong women, strong in physical as well as mental development. This strength is required for prosecuting a persistent warfare against prevailing and existing wrongs, as well as for transmitting health and vigor to the coming generation.”

But these writers were rare. Most etiquette books held up an idealized young woman—sweet, quiet, content, hardworking, and virtuous. And some etiquette books—like Beautiful Girlhood, published by the Gospel Trumpet Company, and The Mirror of True Womanhood by the Rt. Rev. Monsignor Bernard O’Reilly—were girded by religiosity. O’Reilly was a rare male etiquette writer; and no wonder: while men were required to know how to bow properly and ask a woman to dance, it was women who had thousands of such rules to live by.

Today, a good deal of the advice in these books would be considered dated and often offensive. But most books offered some advice that still holds true. For his part, O’Reilly warned mothers of both daughters and sons against “giving their boys . . . so large a place in the house that their daughters either seem in the way or are obliged to devote themselves to the pleasure and caprice of their brothers.” Unfortunately, it was also O’Reilly who advised mothers to “impart to every one of your girls a deep horror of the licentious and romantic literature of the day” and “to turn [your daughter’s] eyes and her whole mind away from an indecent engraving or painting or sculpture, as she would withdraw her hand or arm from the contact of red-hot iron.”

Into this mix of myriad etiquette guides came Etiquette in Society, in Business, in Politics and at Home (1922) by Emily Post, a journalist, fiction writer, and high-society gal—really a society insider who was willing to share the secrets of etiquette with everyone. She was also a divorcée—not that that hurt her sales: in 1923 her book topped Publishers Weekly’s sales list for nonfiction.

Unlike other etiquette books’ often-uninspired content, covering such scintillating topics as shaking hands and using a napkin, Post infused her copy with lively characters and gave them tongue-in-cheek names such as the Richan Vulgars, the Toploftys, and the Kindharts.

In addition, Post suggested in her introduction that anyone could be a gentleman or a lady simply by following proper etiquette: “Best Society is not a fellowship of the wealthy, nor does it seek to exclude those who are not of exalted birth; but it is an association of gentle-folk, of which good form in speech, charm of manner, knowledge of the social amenities, and instinctive consideration for the feelings of others, are the credentials by which society the world over recognizes its chosen members.” What welcome words these must have been for newly arrived immigrants, society’s up-and-comers, the increasing numbers of young people moving to cities, and many more.

Still, rules were rules, and as I continued to find more etiquette volumes, I wanted to know how people, especially women, followed them back in the day. I started delving into turn-of-the-century newspapers to learn more about the time, and what I found were stories not about etiquette- and law-abiding girls and women but about the rule breakers.

One hundred years ago, women made headlines when they did the unexpected: suffragists led New York City police on a chase, working women protested unsafe working conditions, a teenage debutante worked to improve the lives of poor immigrants, female entrepreneurs built million-dollar businesses, and so forth.

I found the juxtaposition of what was expected of girls and women and how they actually acted in their everyday lives fascinating. That’s when I knew I had to start writing about all of this—both the rules and rule breakers of the day. 

A year ago, I launched a blog titled AttaGirl, circa 1900, with the tagline: “Not a good-old-day salute, AttaGirl, circa 1900, is more of a cheer for how far we’ve come.” Since then, I’ve written roughly 30 main entries—covering topics from turn-of-the-century interracial dating to corset controversies, plus lots of brief items, like recipes for homemade beauty concoctions, fashions of the day (i.e., shorter skirts to accommodate bicycle-riding girls), and quizzes to see if a modern understanding of etiquette would suffice back in 1900.

Over the year, the blog has experienced more than 8,000 page views, belying my small but loyal group of followers. Of course, you have to ignore a few hundred of those views as a whole bunch of Russian men (blogspot keeps track of reader geography) seemed to gravitate to my entry titled “Swimsuits and high heels.” It was not at all what they thought they’d find.

Americans still seek etiquette advice. The Emily Post Institute has obliged by publishing the 18th edition of Emily’s guide in October 2011, blogging, tweeting, and more. And just as at the turn of the century, the advice reflects the times. These days, however, the content offers not so much a listing of rules as “courteous behaviors and gracious actions.” Something that’s good for everyone.

You can find AttaGirl, circa 1900 at attagirl1900.blogspot.com. Karin B. Miller is also the editor of The Cancer Poetry Project, a Minnesota Book Award winner for best anthology. She is currently accepting submissions through December 31, 2011, for the second volume at www.cancerpoetryproject.com.

by William Reichard

When I was 17 years old I discovered the film Cabaret while flipping through channels on late-night TV. Seven years after its premiere, I hadn’t heard of the movie.  Something about the film’s style and mood drew me in and held me. Although I usually didn’t enjoy musicals, I kept watching. Michael York’s character seemed so familiar, but I couldn’t articulate why, at first. A gay teenager in rural Minnesota in 1980, I was as clueless as Sally Bowles, and lacked her bravado. As the film came to the scene where Michael York’s and Liza Minnelli’s characters discover they’ve been sleeping with the same man, I experienced the revelation just as Sally did, in real time, and I was just as shocked. For me, however, the experience was also one of unmitigated joy, as this was the first time I’d seen a gay man portrayed on television, in the movies, anywhere. For a closeted and fearful teenager, the experience was profound. I’d never seen myself reflected in anything I’d watched or read before, and I was a voracious reader, an avid watcher. Or if I had, I wasn’t ready until that moment to recognize it. I was hungry for any kind of affirmation, any sense that I wasn’t alone in the world, and there was Cabaret, broadcast right into my living room by ABC late on a Friday night.

by Paul Zerby

 “There is an old style of teaching where the teacher has gold bricks of knowledge, reaches back,” said Father Jogues, reaching back over his shoulder, “and hands them out to the students,” miming distribution. “We believe in the pizza style, where each of us puts an ingredient on the pizza, and the facilitator,” he looked at me, “is the crust.” We were beginning the second of a four-session workshop called “Writing Fiction from Life” I’d been engaged to teach the Storyweavers, a group of seniors who had been meeting weekly over the past year to work on their writing, on their own, thank you. Father Jogues looked at me and waited. 

by Elizabeth Bourque Johnson and Ted Bowman
editors of The Wind Blows, The Ice Breaks: Poems of Loss and Renewal by Minnesota Poets

Smile.
Love what you love.
Take a deep breath.
Walk in the other’s shoes—poems, that is. ~Elizabeth Bourque Johnson

At a conference of the National Association for Poetry Therapy some years ago, we (Ted and Elizabeth) just happened to sit next to each other at lunch, and in the course of the conversation—where are you from? what do you do?—we learned that we were both from the Twin Cities, wrote poetry, and shared an experience with writing and grief. Before the luncheon was over, Ted said, “I’m going to find a project for us to do together.”

by Roger S. Jones

Roger S. Jones died on April 2, 2011. A note from Louise, his wife, received on April 10 read

My husband Roger S. Jones died a week ago after a whirlwind bout with cancer (three weeks from diagnosis to death). He was so pleased that you were publishing his article. The irony is that he never had the chance to complete the project he wrote about: to collect his writings and e-publish them.

I keep thinking about dying. Not right now, mind you. Just in a general kind of way. And I’m not being morbid either; I’m in no rush. It’s just that at my age, it’s hard not to think about end-of-life matters. It’s certainly not about any funeral or memorial plans. Even less am I concerned with the disposal of my body. In fact, cremation is my choice, and what they do with the remains matters little to me.

Rather, it has something to do with a kind of obligation I feel as I approach the end. Nobody has told me that I must do anything in particular—nobody, that is, except me. But for some reason, I worry about tidying things up and finishing them off. And for the most part that means my writing. My possessions and any money will be disposed of or distributed in a meaningful way according to my will, so I’m not really concerned about that. But what I don’t want is for someone to act as a kind of literary executor for me and make decisions about what to do—if anything—with my growing written output. In truth, I don’t trust anyone to do that job, so I feel I’d better get it done myself. Am I being vain? Perhaps.

by Mark Herwig

In the Office

My thoughts are lucid and streaming free, imagining the events of last November on the prairies of west-central Minnesota. I’ve just finished writing a feature for Pheasants Forever magazine. I’m pouring on the color, the things that set our readers on fire about the volunteer work they do for wildlife habitat conservation.

I am happy with what has been put down on (electronic) paper. It’s a mind rush to write creatively, to see the images, feelings, and thoughts of others take shape as a cohesive tale. To celebrate wrapping up this particular “masterpiece,” I crank the volume of a favorite song, “Road to the Faire” by David Arkenstone.

Tomás Riley will appear with Sham-e-Ali Nayeem  for Equilibrium: Spoken Word at the Loft on Saturday, April 16, 2011. He is kind to share some of his work prior to the event.

by Tomás Riley

Christopher Columbus statue

October 1992—As the nation observed the Columbus Quincentenary, 5,000 or more Chicanas/os from Seattle to San Diego, Los Angeles to Kansas City, all converged on the US-Mexico border town of San Ysidro in counterdemonstrations celebrating the survival of indigenous cultures in the Americas through the 500 Years of Resistance March.

asphalt shook and rumbled under foot

and up the block heat and mirage combined to ripple like the sea

soon we would all walk on water

we martyrs

we aching fragments

searching for a face

•   •   •

October 1992, Columbus Day, and as we made our way down San Ysidro Boulevard toward the Tijuana border crossing I couldn’t help feeling a little swept up by the tide—its ebb and flow with myths about Columbus and indigenous ancestors all swirling over the breakwaters of the last 500 years. I resigned myself to following the drums, the danzantes leading the way with hard steps on hot streets. This was the pulse we found, all 5,000 marchers from places as far away as Oregon, Colorado, and Arizona; all of them beneath their banners; all of us beneath the grumbling of a monolith in motion. If we could speak anything that day, it would emerge in the beating of the drum in a cadence we could feel throughout the crowd.

•   •   •

break beats boomin’ off a red sun caught

between the upkeep and the downstroke

un homenaje al pasaje suroeste

•   •   •

I should add that this was all still pretty new to me, being one of those Chicanos who came to the movement intellectually before understanding it culturally (the net effect of growing up “super pocho” in the African American enclave of Emerald Hills in southeast San Diego). So when I say we found a heartbeat there it might be better said that I had found one where once was only absence, and with it came the tone and timbre of resistance. This is why we deal in metaphors. How else to describe what exists only within your chest but flows through others too as if we all flowed through the veins of giants? What hands throb beneath the surface of a world undone holding your feet down to this earth releasing just so often as to guide you ever forward?

Movements move like this, slowly, deliberately—almost tectonically—past all the shops on the avenue still open for business and the disbelieving onlookers. This was no exception. Already some 40 minutes into the breach, and the border was still barely visible on the horizon with its spiraling walkways at either end of the footbridge teeming with shadows.

•   •   •

go back

across

effete and desolate

america

not threatening

not warning

que te vayas pues

pero voy a llegar primero

•   •   •

I am on the footbridge looking forward into the milk of an interminable sun. Our yellowish heat burns at the edges of America. We slide fervently above the port of entry staring brashly at where we’d come from—where we were not from. Beneath us, hordes of commuters curse as Interstate 5 becomes a parking lot outside the port of entry into Mexico as the gates have suddenly closed. Car horns launch into a peevish symphony of “I demand my keys to the kingdom!”

And amid the palpable confusion five or six brown faces hurdle past the barricade racing between the traffic lanes at top speed, weaving, dodging, ducking toward el norte. The marchers roar in triumph! We look down from the overpass to see that no one is giving chase, and then roar louder, creating all the more disturbance and distraction as the men will make their way to safety. They will fade into our masses, blurring the line between the disappeared and the invisible among our ranks. If the whole thing halts here, we’ve already gained entry to the world.

•   •   •

here

there is nothing

but return

and you imagine

not to go

not to search

through useless pockets

and let what is

ungodly

be

Tomás Riley is a Chicano artist and activist born in Oakland, California, and raised in the southeast San Diego neighborhood of Emerald Hills. His work has been published in several anthologies, including Bum Rush the Page: A Def Poetry Jam (Three Rivers Press, 2001). His first book, Mahcic, was published by Calaca Press in December 2005. As both a soloist and member of the Taco Shop Poets, Riley has performed at more than 200 venues across the country. His work has been described as a meld of Chicano bilingualism and conscious cultural politics set to a soundtrack of hip-hop, jazz, and indigenous ceremony. His aesthetic, however, defies the singular categories of any of these influences, opting for a controlled lyricism that fuses them all in a remix on a par with the pastiche of a master turntablist.

Tomás Riley will appear with Sham-e-Ali Nayeem at the April 16 Equilibrium: Spoken Word at the Loft performance.

by Mary Carroll Moore

That first phone call came on a busy day at work. I was preparing 700 stuffed cherry tomatoes for a catering job that night and here was a publisher on the phone asking if I would consider authoring a book. It would be based on my cooking school, which had just been written up in USA Today. Of course I said yes—who wouldn’t? I didn’t tell the publisher I knew nothing about organizing a book manuscript.

by Katy Jensen

Years from now, we will probably remember February 2011 for the monstrous winter storm that turned Houston into a skating rink and gave Chicago schoolchildren their first “snow day” in 12 years. From New Mexico to Maine, millions of people struggled to maintain their daily schedules, only to realize the situation was beyond their control. Eventually, millions of people decided to put down the snow shovel and curl up on the couch with a blanket and a good book.