Story Hunting

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Mad About Words founder Mary Ann De Stefano invited me to sketch a workshop on October 26th by resident author Caroline Walker at the Kerouac House (1418 Clouser Avenue, Orlando FL). Caroline Walker is a writer, producer and amateur explorer originally from Rock Island, Illinois. She holds a BA from the University of Southern California and an MA from New York University’s Gallatin School of Individualized Study. She has hiked many miles of tunnels, mines, architectural time capsules, trails, not-yet-trails, roads, shorelines, cityscapes, caves, graveyards and abandoned buildings.

The invitation explained, “Writers explore uncharted territory every time we tell a story. We are the cartographers, archaeologists, anthropologists and private eyes of our own imaginations. The real world can be a powerful ally—if we know where to look for clues. This workshop encourages storytellers to excavate narratives through a connection to place. Using photographs and objects as prompts, participants will discover how to:

    Empower locations to serve as dynamic characters

    Employ everyday observation as an evocative research method

    Exploit objects and artifacts as unique narrative tools

    Experience a deeper connection to our surroundings”

This workshop was right up my alley. I’m out exploring everyday using a sketchbook to record the hunt.  Though Caroline was dressed in a fashionable black dress with a tight blue belt, she wore practical hiking boots instead of high heels. She asked the writers to focus on two things, Objects and Places. Places are secret keepers, clues to the story. She described in eloquent detail the unique place in Wisconsin where she grew up. It was spared from the glacial drifts millions of years ago which left it un-scarred. It is the one place where Paleozoic snails survive and it brings back vibrant childhood memories. She talked about the huge Live Oak in front of the Kerouac House which is surrounded by Resurrection ferns and all that implies. Some places instinctively make her light up with inspiration. For some people that place might be a beach, but she feels uncomfortable at the immense expanse of open ocean.   More than anything, she invited writers to discover what place lights them up, to access a childlike sense of newness.

Each writer said a little about themselves including a bit about a place that they call home. Caroline handed out photos she had taken of abandoned places and the authors had thirty seconds to write something based on what they saw. The results were surprising and sometimes profound. Caroline is a true listener, and endlessly curious, I suspect the writing session fueled her creative reserves as well. Her enthusiasm to explore and discover something new everyday was infectious and inspiring.

Mark Your Calendar, Caroline Walker will be reading at the Kerouac House (1418 Clouser Ave, Orlando, FL) on November 16th at 7pm. She will also be reading at Functionally Literate, on November 22nd at The Gallery at Avalon Island (39 S. Magnolia Avenue, Orlando, Fl) starting at 6pm.

Kerouac House Reading, Brooks Teevan

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On Saturday June 27th, Terry and I went to a reading by Brooks Teevan at the Kerouac House (1418 Clouser Ave, Orlando, FL 32804). The Kerouac House was recently added to the National Register of Historic Places and a small brass plaque next to the front door proudly displays this humble building’s new status. Brooks Teevan came to the Kerouac House for the Summer of 2013. Her work has appeared in The Little Patuxent Review. It has also won Northwestern University’s TriQuarterly Fiction Prize and the University of Chicago’s Writer’s Studio Student Prize. Brooks hails from San Francisco and more recently Chicago.

Brooks story was fun and quirky with some unexpected turns. One character wore a nautically themed dress which is ironically what Brooks wore for her reading. One of the guests at a dinner party turned out to be an alien, literally. Hmmm, that might be a spoiler alert. Back up a sentence and strike that from the record. Geoff Benge sat like “The Thinker” in the audience, leaning forward to soak in every word.

After the reading, there was wine and conversation. Steve McCall told me about an open forum called “Sundowning” he started for people who care for Alzheimer patients. Apparently a person with Alzheimers can function normally during the day, but at night, they get aggressive and are prone to wander. The term refers to a psychological state of
confusion and restlessness that begins at dusk and during evening hours
while the sun is setting. I thought “Sundowners” would be a good title of a horror film in which aging baby boomers would wander the city streets in the evenings causing havoc and mayhem. Granted it is tasteless but it could make for an amazing apocalyptic film. Wait, wouldn’t you know, I’m too late. A film titled, “Sundowning” has been made already. Just my luck.

Any Road Will Take You There

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Terry and I went to the Kerouac House (1418 Clouser Street Orlando FL) on Saturday, July 20th at 8PM to hear David Berner read from his book “Any Road Will Take You There: A Journey of Fathers and Sons“. David, a past resident author at the Kerouac House, now resides in Chicago. He felt his life was at an impasse and decided to take a road trip with his sons to loosely follow Jack Kerouac‘s journey’s cross country. Rather than travel in a vintage automobile, he decided to travel in an RV. One of his sons said, “Its not cool dad, it is a tin can.” Regardless his son was up for the adventure.

David found a family photo which hinted at strained relations due to infidelity. He realized he had never been told about the hurt feelings and anger as he grew up. He wanted to know his own sons better. The mid-life “On the Road” trip would be a way to connect. While writing in the Kerouac House, David felt Jack’s presence in the back room and he decided that is where he would have to write.  David knew quite a bit about self publishing saying most authors never sell more than one thousand books.

After the reading David signed books at the dining room table. Brooks Teevan, the present resident artist, told us all about a news cast about a plane crash of Asiana Flight 214. The names of the pilots had been researched and a call to an intern at the MTSB confirmed the names. The captain was Sum Ting Wong, and the other pilots were Wi To Lo, Ho Lee Fuk, and Bang Ding Ow. The newscaster never skipped a beat as she read the names off the teleprompter. Someone must have been playing a prank which somehow slipped through the rigorous checks needed before the story aired. As horrible as the news of the crash was, it was impossible not to laugh. Long after the conversation had moved on to a more literary topic, Terry kept laughing uncontrollably. Just when she could catch her breath, she would start again and everyone would join in.

Jack Kerouac Project Yard Sale

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Each year, the Jack Kerouac Project holds a yard sale to help bring new talented authors to the Kerouac House in College Park. Jack was living in this home with his mother when he found out his novel, On the Road, was being published. That novel shot him towards a fame he wasn’t prepared for. He had to borrow money for the bus ride to New York to sign the publishing deal.

Now, every few months, a new author goes to the Kerouac House for uninterrupted time to write.  I like to meet and sketch the authors when I can. They usually have a reading of the work in progress which is a great time to meet the authors. The Kerouac Project is a real grassroots group that does an amazing job supporting authors by covering room and board during each authors stay. More importantly, they offer time which is a rare commodity in this day and age.

Caitlin O’Sullivan has landed for this year’s fall selection. She is
currently working on The Kiss-Off, a historical novel about a small waitress in 1931.

Casino Royale

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The Friends of the Orlando Philharmonic Orchestra held a Casino Royale fundraiser at Villa Conroy. Tickets were $100. My wife, Terry, painted herself gold for the event in honor of the James Bond film Gold Finger. When we entered Villa Conroy, the first song on the sound system was appropriately, Gold Finger. Upstairs, blackjack and roulette tables were set up. The room was filled with art, both representational and abstract. A Chihuli glass lily pad was encased behind Plexiglas. Everyone was handed a hundred dollar bill which could be turned in for chips. Terry used my chips since she played while I sketched.

At the roulette wheel, Kristin Brandt, the Assistant Director of Development for the Philharmonic, was tentative about placing her first bets. She had never played roulette before. Her boyfriend  stood behind her coaching. She doubled her money. Then doubled it again. She was giddy and flustered, blushing. “Beginners luck” someone muttered as his chips were cleaned off the table. A crowd gathered and shouted as she won again. More chips were pulled out to be added to her pile.

Terry, the golden girl, mostly stuck with Blackjack. Towards the end of the evening she grew fearless and her winnings grew exponentially. At stake for everyone in the room was the lure of a gift basket. I scanned the other tables to see if anyone else had a stack of chips as big as Terry’s. Kristin’s stack had dissipated. The gentleman on the right side of my sketch had an impressive pile. With a minute to go before they closed the betting, Terry bet everything and lost. The gentleman took home the gift basket. Each of the dealers had Tupperware “tip jars”. They were stuffed full or real green.

After the fundraiser, Terry and I went to the Kerouac House where we just missed the reading by resident author, Leslie Parry.  Former resident author, Catlin Doyle, was there as well. She was at the Atlantic Center of the Arts in New Smyrna Beach and she drove to Orlando for the reading.  I was fascinated with her life as a nomadic resident artist. After a quick bite and sip, Terry and I went to Fringe for a Poetry Smack down.

On the Road

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Kelly Medford was visiting Orlando from Rome, Italy. She decided she wanted to do a plein air painting of the Kerouac House. Kelly does a plein air painting every day which is astounding and ambitious. The last time I had sketched the house, I sat on a small patch of grass between a chain link fence and the street. The home owner walked her dog while I was working and when she returned, she yelled at me. I was certain the old lady would call the police. I of course told Kelly the horror story. She decided to set her easel up on the road. Traffic was light on Clouser Avenue but I had to admire her chutzpa. A garbage truck roared by and Kelly waved to the driver. I sat “On the Road” a few yards away from her and started blocking in my own sketch.

The yard around the Kerouac House had experienced a major overhaul. Palmettos and other dense foliage had been removed leaving the side of the building looking naked and exposed. I respected the buildings modesty and didn’t sketch its newly exposed flank. The house to me, had a sad worn look to it. Roof lines sagged inward and the tired beams struggled to support the weight of the tin roof. A giant live oak towered over the house, letting in only thin beams of sunlight. What a gorgeous day. I don’t sketch outside much since I’m usually sketching indoor events. This was a nice change of pace. Kelly moved the garbage can and recycling bins so they weren’t in her picture. I rather liked them, since they show that the place is and always will be occupied and alive, full of creative energy and the buzz of independent minds sharing thoughts and experiences.

A women power walked past us saying, “Hello, how nice to see artists in the neighborhood!” Kelly laughed afterwards saying, “Why doesn’t SHE live across the street from the Kerouac House?” As if on cue, the old lady came out with her bloodhound on a leash. I sucked in my breath. She disappeared around the corner, past the STOP sign, without incident. She returned and re-entered her home quietly as well. When my sketch was finished, I walked up to Kelly to see her progress. Her oil painting was completely blocked in and she was refining the details. She extended an open invitation for Terry and I to visit Rome to paint and explore. That is a very tempting invitation. A private Prix de Rome, learning about that ancient city from a resident artist. Jack Kerouac would have certainly jumped at the chance to leap over that vast expanse of the Atlantic and soak in the ancient ruins.

Sweetheart Deals – Beth Raymer

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Terry and I went to a farewell reading by Beth Raymer at the Kerouac House. Beth had been working for the past month on a novel entitled Sweetheart Deals as a writer in residence. Her first book, Lay the Favorite: A Memoir of Gambling was a huge success and it is being made into a film directed by Stephen Frears (High Fidelity, The Grifters), starring Bruce Willis, Catherine Zeta-Jones and Rebecca Hall who I assume is playing Beth. It is slated to open next year. The success of her first book meant Beth was inundated with interviews and appearances. She confided she wasn’t much of a public figure and she found all the attention distracted from her continued desire to write. The Kerouac House writer in residence program came just when she needed a chance to get away and focus on her new novel.

She was charmingly nervous as she introduced her new book, speaking a mile a minute. She curled her hair with her index finger and delicately pointed her cowboy boot inward, twisting the curve of her leg. Having written a memoir, she was used to reporting facts and her new novel recreated her family dynamic when she was six years old. The story is largely about a man based on her father, a boisterous salesman who, as it turned out had a mistress. She described the mistress in loving detail, describing the diminutive qualities that attracted her father’s attention. At one point he needed money so he set fire to his business. Beth consulted with local insurance agents to see if the facts of her story worked. The story is set in Florida, so Beth was glad to return to feel the humidity and see lizards dashing under foot. Vivid childhood memories surfaced. She liked to work at the kitchen table in the Kerouac House, often editing in the afternoons. Like Jack Kerouac she has lived a vibrant unconventional life. She is new to Facebook and on a dark evening she got a friend request from a mysterious Jack from beyond the grave.

Beth seemed to enjoy the sketch, although as usual the nose is a bit off. There were so many talented people in the house that evening. Kelly Medford who lives in Rome is a plein air painter who does a painting a day. Authors stood in the open kitchen doorway laughing about local characters. Patrick Greene told me about a harvest of sugar cane that would make a great, “Old Florida” sketch opportunity. Leaning against a stove, a young man in a baseball cap pulled a bright fire engine red flask from a hip pocket and the final drops were emptied into a drink.

Beth offered me some delicious fruit salad she had prepared. In the kitchen, she talked about how odd it was that so many British actors were in the movie version of her first book. The screenplay writer, DeVincentis, brought his background to the story and the director had his personal vision. It must have been hard to give up control especially when it is the story of her life. I told her how I felt I gave up my artistic identity when I worked for Disney Feature Animation, and how I’m just now rediscovering that inner voice. She raised her cup of wine and we toasted.

IIyse Kusnetz Poetry Reading

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I stopped by Urban ReThink for an evening of poetry. I was greeted by friendly handshakes and hugs from many people who I had met thanks to the Kerouac House project. I had seen author Karen Price just the night before also at Urban ReThink. This place truly is becoming a lightning rod to the cultural pulse of this city. I picked up a “Pumpkin Head” beer from the freezer. What a delicious beer! I may just keep sketching events at Urban ReThink until their supply runs out. I’m thinking Pumpkin beer is seasonal but I just realized Halloween is only two months away! The supply is limitless for the next few months.

John Hughes was the first poet to get behind the microphone. I enjoyed the way he spoke about his brother. He claimed his brother is butt ugly yet girls always flocked to him. He couldn’t understand the phenomenon since he considered himself reasonably handsome. Lucky in love, unlucky in life the saying goes. Sure enough his brother had the worst luck growing up. He was glad to be near his brother since he would soak up all the bad luck in any room. When John read one poem which was written about his ex-wife, he mispronounced the first word saying “lick” instead of “lit”. A Kerouac House regular shouted, “Freudian slip!” John had to stop as he started laughing himself. He finally read the line of the poem, “lit the wick.” Every poet in the room burst into laughter as they re-wrote the line in their minds. It took me several seconds before I started laughing as well.

Ilyse Kusnetz explained that her collection of poems were all about bearing witness. I like the premise since I feel my role in sketching is to bear witness not just to the struggle of everyday life but also to the beauty in the mundane. Many of Ilyse’s poems were about WWII. Her uncle served in the war and being Jewish he was often called upon to translate. He witnessed the worst atrocities imaginable. One of her poems spoke of bodies piled high like cord wood and native Germans being directed to move the bodies they so long denied. Her father was to young to serve in the war but he did help on the docks. A huge crate being transferred to a ship slipped and everyone else let go of the guiding ropes except for her dad. She wrote a wonderful analogy about how he held tight just as he later did to keep his family together and secure.

The next day Terry was leaving me for ten days over Labor Day as she visited her sister in Washington State. Rather than mingle with all the writers after the reading, I immediately slipped out like a phantom. It was important to get home to Terry.

Ellie Watts-Russell

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I went to visit the Kerouac House writer in residence, Ellie Watts-Russell, on a warm sunny afternoon. When she writes she cuts herself off from all distractions. The cell phone is turned off the night before and the computer is off to avoid the distraction of Facebook. She was getting close to the end of the novel she was working on, entitled “The Lodge”, and and she didn’t want to rush to the finish line. Usually when she writes she shares her work with another writer to get his opinion while she reads his work. Since she was working alone at the Kerouac House she spends more time proof reading her work. This is what she was doing when I joined her on the porch to sketch.
Born in 1979, Ellie is a graduate of Andrew Motion’s Creative Writing course at Royal Holloway. In 2006 she was appointed Writer-In-Residence at HMP Ashwell, an all male prison in Rutland. She speaks with a charming British accent. A petite hummingbird necklace adorned her neck. We sat quietly for more than an hour as she worked. Her Oxford dictionary and thesaurus were on hand and she occasionally consulted with them. Her Moleskin notebook seemed to bulge at the seems. Her keys, attached to a mountain climbers clasp were partially tucked into her notebook. The glass of ice water sweated as she worked. I can’t wait till “The Lodge” hits book stores.

On the Tip of Your Tongue

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Mad About Words sponsored a writing workshop with Ellie Watts-Russell the current writer in residence at the Kerouac house. She organized the workshop to explore the power of taste, sound and touch as artistic triggers. The workshop began in the Kerouac house living room where she asked everyone to introduce themselves and point out one quirky fact from their lives. Ellie worked in a men’s prison. The man in front of me said the smell of bacon always reminded him of his time in the navy. A woman related that she electrocuted herself in the kitchen once. Every person offered a fascinating taste and I wanted to hear more. An excerpt was read from several authors who explored the senses in their writing. One paragraph was from Jack Kerouac’s Darma Bums, where he described his ascent up a rocky mountainside. It was vivid and clear. Ellie had a sweet British accent, and she would acknowledge writing she loved as “Brilliant.”

Ellie then asked everyone a series of questions which would help indicate if you were a visual, aural, or tactile author. One question was, after buying an item of IKEA furniture would you,
A. Read the instructions.
B. Ask a friend for advice or
C. Start building and learn as you go.
I was sketching but I am fairly sure I am a visual person. Besides I haven’t fully smelled anything since I moved to Florida.

Ellie then invited everyone to the back room of the house. There she had items to stimulate the senses. For smell there was a large Magnolia blossom floating in a clear bowl of water. For touch there was a brown puddle in a paper plate that held it’s form when lifted like some primordial ooze. For taste there was some cotton candy which had collapsed in the Florida heat forming compact pancakes of multicolored sweetness. Ellie was mortified and put out some fresh “candy floss” but everyone picked up and tasted the hardened masses. On the wall there were photos. A man pushed a large block of ice. A long line of people struggled up a dune. A young girls face was illuminated by her laptop.

Then everyone sat down to write. Many authors sat outside to enjoy the beautiful day. I finished my sketch as they wrote. I wanted to get home to Terry so I didn’t stick around to hear what everyone wrote. I thanked Ellie for letting me sit in and started home. On the drive back I passed a black limo and a hearse. It seemed sad that only two cars followed. Later a gleaming white hearse and limo made a left turn down the Orange Blossom Trail. A large white SUV screeched to a halt in the middle of the intersection and two men in white suits jumped out to direct traffic so that the insanely long line of cars could breeze through. As an artist or author we always hope we can touch many lives with whatever we create. I wondered if my funeral would have one car or a long line in tow. It is a vain glorious thing to ponder but what matters is that I leave something behind, and that I never let my senses grow dull. Howl at the moon and rush off in search of the next sketch.