Grades 4-12, College, and Adults

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This is our eleventh year sponsoring Fine Lines creative writing summer camps for students of all ages. Join writers who add clarity and passion to their lives with the written word.
We will have fun with words, learn to play while developing poems-stories-essays, and discover creative corners of our minds that we did not know existed. Metaphorically, we will take our journal under a “shade tree” and talk together about issues that matter. We will swim around important “buoys” in our educational journeys. We will row a boat to a “lighthouse” that shows us our path through the fog. We will take our minds for a “jog” to the library. We will learn to write more, write faster, and write better. More than anything, though, we will create time to dream about our ideas and celebrate the power and beauty of words.

Where: Beveridge Magnet Middle School
When: June 14-18, 8:30 a.m. – 12:00 p.m.

Beveridge Magnet Middle School is located at 1616 South 120 Street, Omaha, NE 68144-1687. Contact the school office if you have questions (402) 557-4000.
Cost: Make checks out to Fine Lines ($100/person/week). This includes the summer camp registration, a camp T-shirt, snacks every day, several guest speakers, and a yearly subscription to Fine Lines: a national, quarterly, creative writing journal for writers of all ages.

Camp Director: David Martin, fine-lines@cox.net, 402-871-3682
Fine Lines is a 501(c)(3) non-profit organization – www.finelines.org
Send checks to Fine Lines, PO Box 241713, Omaha, NE 68124. PayPal is available.

Please see the attached flier for more information and a printable registration form.
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Flier in a .pdf

Karen O’Leary

The phrase was invented to thwart Mother Wrath and reduce any hard working mother to putty in her kids’ hands. And, it is guaranteed to send shivers down the spine of even the most seasoned Veteran Mom.

Picture this scene. I’m dedicating my already sore fingers to a mound of fresh vegetables, trying to prepare a truly nutritious and wholesome meal for my family of four. A loud crash echoes from our basement. My heart hammers in my chest as I brake for the stairs, my mind rolling through a list of possible casualties. My foot slips on the carpet, but I manage to right myself before breaking my neck.

My girls stand side by side near the fireplace, ready for battle. My eldest’s quivering voice pleads, “I’m sorry Mom, but we couldn’t help it.” It’s all part of the act.

I stare in mild shock as my new brass and glass candleholder lay in shattered on the bricks and surrounding carpet. My youngest has the offending basketball tucked under her arm as she claims, “It was an accident.”

“But you know you’re not supposed to play with balls in the family room,” I explain, trying to fend off their defense. My anger boils just below the surface.

They look up at me with repentant eyes. “We’re really sorry Mom,” my oldest appeals, tipping her head to one side. It was a masterful move sure to melt even the most hardened heart.

“We’ll buy you a new one,” her sister adds with the precision of a skilled lawyer. There was no way a few coins will cover the cost. I can’t afford to replace it.

Disappointment replaces my anger as I stoop down and pick up a piece of the crackled-finish glass. “I’ll help you Mommy.” My older daughter rests her small hand on my shoulder.

Meanwhile, my youngest carries the offending ball into the next room, returning with the wastebasket. She holds up the brass base of my broken treasure. “This is still good.”

I gently run my fingers over the shiny metal before sliding it into the trash. “It’s not any good without the other part,” my voice explains barely above a whisper.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot my eldest picking up a piece of glass. I suck in a breath, trying to calm my fears. In one smooth swoop, I grab her wrist, slipping potential harm from her tiny fingers.

I banish the two with the rigorous sentence of sitting quietly on the couch to watch television until supper. Their smiles tell me the defense has won another case. No matter, they’re quiet, giving me a chance to clean up and regain my equilibrium after swimming through a sea of emotions.

As I’ve heard the words, “I’m sorry Mom, but I couldn’t help it,” repeated over the years, I can’t help but wonder if it isn’t God’s way of helping a tired mother control her anger. For that, I am grateful. But, I’d feel truly blessed if I never had to hear these words again.

Jazmond Goss

“Our Fine Lines mission is to provide a beacon of hope for the misunderstood, share a global vision of improved literacy, embrace the passion of human diversity, understand the need for clarity in all communication, and create the lives we desire through the written word.

Fine Lines is a national, literary, quarterly journal dedicated to publishing writers of all ages and interests. Led by dedicated volunteers who provide creative oversight, it is an inclusive, nurturing, nonprofit, educational, creative writing community engaged in the thoughtful pursuit of beauty and truth.” 
Our Motto: “Write On”

******

A delicious warmth engulfs me as I walk into Julio’s Restaurant from the biting cold outside. The smells of tempting, unidentifiable foods tickle my nose and tantalize my taste buds. A small murmur permeates the room; a burst of laughter breaks out in the back, and I know where my party is sitting. Making my way to the longest table, compiled of several shorter tables strung together, the Fine Lines Special Editors sit close to a window, and several people are reading, eating, or chatting.

Looking up from his papers, David Martin smiles a welcome to me. A few of the ladies at the table look up and smile also, as he extends his hand; I take it in greeting, and he asks me how I’ve been, how I like UNL, and brags to a companion across the table, “She went to Amherst last year,” as I take my seat. I smile, meekly, a little uncomfortable in this new environment. I had never been to one of the Fine Lines Special Editors’ meetings before, despite being an Online Editor for a year.

I first heard about Fine Lines through my creative writing teacher in high school, Kim Bultsma, who was an editor herself. The summer after I graduated from high school, I assisted in instructing a Fine Lines Creative Writers’ Camp held at Bellevue West High School. After this week of intensive writing, I had my first piece published in Fine Lines. That fall, I moved to Amherst, Massachusetts, to attend college at the University of Massachusetts. I was offered the opportunity to work with the journal as an editor when I met David at the camp and became a Special Online Editor. I would get articles e-mailed to me to edit and have printed in the journal. After my year in Massachusetts, I moved back to Nebraska, where I grew up, and attended the University of Nebraska at Lincoln, where tuition is cheaper and home is closer. Lincoln’s close proximity to Omaha allowed me to finally attend one of the meetings and meet some other editors who worked with Fine Lines for a long time.

David Martin is an English teacher and has taught high school and college students for decades before moving on to teach college students. This is his story of how Fine Lines began in a high school English class, as shown in his piece “Fine Lines: The Beginning”: “In 1990, one of my English classes was filled with downtown, street-wise, tough high school teenagers who were one step from expulsion. All of them failed English class before, at least once, some of them several times. They did not want to be in school, and they couldn’t wait to leave those classroom walls . . . but the meanest looking and most physical was a white boy named Jack . . . . This group of “at-risk” juvenile delinquents was quiet, like the silence before a storm. If they misbehaved, they knew their days as students in that urban high school were over, and the street was the only thing they had waiting for them. Most of them knew what that meant: gangs, hard work, prison, and an early death from drugs. They all had friends or family in one of those places.”
According to David, Jack never talked to anyone, not even David himself. Struggling to discover the best way to reach these students, he knew he needed to try an approach different from the techniques that other teachers used in the past.

“I decided we would write every day and keep a journal of our own work. Our writing notebooks became our textbooks, and I graded their work by the pound. In this class, the sweat that appeared from pushing a pen across the lines on the paper would earn credit. Three days a week, I would bring ideas for us to write about, and two days a week, different students would bring ideas from their personal lives for the class to write about. In effect, they would share in teaching the class. We sat in a circle, and everyone was equal.”

David was surprised to discover the philosophical and intellectual person hiding behind Jack’s mass. At 6 foot 4 inches and 225 pounds, he was rather intimidating to both David and the rest of the students in his class.

“When [Jack] turned in his notebook to me, as the others did, every Friday, I made sure to write something about his thoughts on every page. All my comments were positive. I believe in the power of positive reinforcement, and he had so much rejection in his life that I did not want to add to that long, negative list of ‘downers.’ I was surprised to find out that he was a deep thinker. No one could see what he wrote but me. I was amazed. His words were philosophical and intellectual. The sentences and paragraphs were not filled with the anger he generated with his body language and glacial stares in class.”

I feel that this interaction David had with his student is a very important piece of Fine Lines’ history. Without David’s interactions with Jack, I’m not sure Fine Lines would exist today: “[Jack] was the primary inspiration who sparked that anemic, classroom pamphlet to grow into Fine Lines, now a quarterly magazine for new writers of all ages. What started as a classroom motivator to encourage marginal students to write more . . . became a publication . . . .”

Because of his interaction with Jack primarily, but the other students as well, David began to believe, that writing has healing affects on the soul, and the opportunity to release emotions lost inside a person can have wondrous effects. The opportunity to express something in writing may give one the feeling of being heard, rather than feeling ignored, and printing one’s writing particularly offers this, because it becomes far more likely that the writing will be read by others.

David said to Jack about writing: “Hold onto that notebook, and tonight, write into it like you are writing to your best friend. Tell it what you are thinking. Hold onto your pen, like it was your life-line. Don’t let go of it, until you are so tired of writing that you have no energy left. Whatever you do, tell the truth with your words. Make every word ring with honesty. It doesn’t have to be pretty. It doesn’t have to be fancy. Just write. Tell the truth. When you are done, let your ‘new friend’ talk back to you, and all you have to do is listen. Write everything down. You don’t have to show it to anyone, unless you choose to do so.

Through Fine Lines, David offers that opportunity to do so. He offers people the chance to share their words. Hurt, forgiveness, anger, joy, tears and laughter – anything that someone needs to express can be written, printed and in turn, read by another. Fine Lines offers creative writers an outlet and encourages those who are too afraid to share their writing with the world, to do so. By offering an inside look to the interactions of literary communities, one may be encouraged to join others, rather than tip-toeing around on the outskirts, desperately looking in

Fine Lines offers this outlet to people of any age; a piece of poetry written by an eight-year old third grader was printed, as well as several pieces by a ninety-year old great, great grandmother. Because the journal wishes to reach all authors and readers, there are no specific age groups printed; everyone can submit and have something printed. Because of this, there is a content restriction. The subject matter must remain clean (no profanity or overt sexuality).

Although Fine Lines is based in Omaha, Nebraska, the journal reaches much farther than the borders of this central state. Articles have been printed from every state in the US, and Fine Lines is breaching international borders, too. Writing from people in Australia, Azerbaijan, Brazil, Canada, Denmark, Dubai, Ireland, Japan, Switzerland, and Thailand have also been printed in this ever-expanding publication.

Almost every student must write a paper for a class, whether in elementary, middle, high school, or college, and some must even write for their careers. Most do not identify themselves as writers, despite this heavy involvement in composition. What people do not see is how their writing may be considered a piece of art, especially if it was something thrown together at the last minute for a class. But anything that conveys a thought or feeling, right down to a sticky note with a poorly drawn heart or a grocery list may become a work of art, if the creator allows it. This is something that most literary artists recognize and wish to further in the minds of others. It is not necessary to write elegantly to write a book; it is not necessary to write wispy rhymes to write poetry. In order for one to write, a person simply puts pen to paper, fingers to a key board, and one’s thoughts and emotions pour forth. As editors, it is our duty to collaborate with writers and encourage them to do their best when they choose to share their thoughts, hearts, and feelings with our readers.

“Above the generations, the lonely prophets rise,
while truth flings dawn and daystar within their slowing eyes.
And other eyes beholding are kindled by that light
and dawn becomes the morning, the darkness put to flight.”

These lines from the hymn, “The Morning Hangs a Signal” with lyrics by William Channing Gannett, 1840-1923, proclaim the glory of the light. There is nothing unusual there; we find ourselves frequently proclaiming the glory of the light, even today, when “We sing, when night is darkest, the day’s returning glow.”

We are much in love with candles, candles of memory, chalices, and holiday lights in our windows. Light is metaphorically a good thing. Images of daylight and its beauty flood our vocabulary. Light is good, and darkness is, well, not so good. Daylight is good, and nighttime is something to get through.

We talk about the “light of knowledge” and “the light of truth.” Once we talked about “the light at the end of the tunnel.” We are surrounded by so many positive images of light that night and darkness have no chance. And now we have entered our traditional season of lights, Hanukah and Christmas. The people who lived in darkness have seen a great light says a line from one of the Christian gospels. Hanukah celebrates events in the world of the ancient Hebrews that took place a century and a half before the birth of the modern era, before, that is, the birth of Jesus, whose birth we are told, brought light into the world.

Here we are, then, a week away from the solstice, which is the naturalistic foundation of our festivities of light, and the world – at least the world of the northern hemisphere – sees shorter days and longer nights. Ancient people might well have imagined that the trend would continue, until all the world was covered with night. I have begun to feel that of late.

It was not just chance that placed these two religious holidays at the time of the winter solstice. The Christmas legend tells of the triumph of the power of light, from the star that guided the shepherds and others, to the theological concept of the light of the world.

My wife and I and our two youngest children lived in England for six months many years ago, and by the time late October arrived, we were putting our two sons in the school bus at 8:00 a.m. each morning when it was almost totally dark and greeting them each afternoon at 4:00 p.m. when it was also almost totally dark. So I am as caught up as any among us in this celebration of light.

When my wife and I were in Maine in early October this year, the local weather man would end his daily report with statistics about how many daylight hours we had lost since mid-June, right down to the minute, and, I tell you, it got discouraging. But I think we ought to be a bit more tolerant of the night, of darkness, a bit more kindly in the way we speak of the absence of light. A song or even a sermon in praise of night and darkness would be most appropriate at this season of light. So this is it.

No doubt, night will never be as popular as daytime; thus it probably needs a boost from the pulpit, a sermonic defense of “la belle nuit.” Forget for a time such phrases as “the dark night of the soul” and give some thought to the gentleness of darkness and night.

Night is not simply an interval between two days, between yesterday and tomorrow. It has its own being, its own place in the scheme of things. Being intelligent men and women who understand a lot about the movements of the earth, we know why darkness happens. And yet, in our speech and in our moods, the role of night and darkness is denigrated. Shall we speak of the Dark Ages? Of black magic? Black lists? Blackmail? I used the word “denigrated,” and I have learned over the years that it comes from the Latin, “denigrare,” which means “to blacken.”

There are negative images associated with white and with light as well, but they are far outnumbered by the negatives associated with darkness and with night. Ghosts are white, for instance, but so are angels. White is associated with purity and innocence, but too much light blinds us, as any alpine skier knows. There are racial implications to all of this, as well, but that is for another time.

The Psalmist wrote that the light and the dark were both alike to God; but they are not alike to us; it is darkness and night that need our support. I take it to be a truism that each of us needs an element of mystery in our lives, of that which surpasses our understanding. Something beyond our reach, something that intrigues the imagination. The night sky will do it for many of us. A dark night, far beyond the lights of the city, will do it, a sky whose darkness brings forth the stars and planets.

To be sure, there is fear in the darkness, too. I remember talking to a fearful child once upon a time about how nothing changes in the dark. See, I put the light out in the room, and all is in darkness, and then I put the light on, and nothing has changed. That may be a way to deal with childhood fears, but, in truth everything changes in the dark – that is the appeal, the mystery of it.

Anyone who has walked in the night in the country or in the mountains or anywhere far from artificial light knows this. The night makes the world more spacious, more vast, and, surely, more mysterious. All things look different. The commonplace things of this world are transformed by this alchemy of darkness. There is no ugliness at night. An old Arab proverb, more than a bit sexist, no doubt, says, “In the dark, all women are beautiful.”

There is another Arab saying: “At night, all men believe in God.” I doubt that to be true, but it is true that at night there is mystery, the unknown, and the universe is full of wonderment. In the daylight, we see things clearly, or at least we think we do. A house looks like a house; a tree looks like a tree. In the dark, things change their shapes and take upon themselves any shape we can imagine.

Nighttime is, I think, difficult for dogmatic folks, for those who are overly self-assured. It brings everything into question, even ourselves. It tells us that truth can be concealed. No wonder so many religious folks over the years have railed against the powers of darkness.

Shakespeare may have written that the Prince of Darkness is a gentleman, but that only creates more confusion about our attitudes about darkness and light. Be that as it may, there is nothing quite like a tranquil walk on a dark night to remind us that, although there must be basic truths in our universe, we don’t always feel too sure about what they are.

Think kindly thoughts about darkness. Night and darkness bring to our overly active minds and lives a bit of a respite. Nighttime can soothe and soften; it can gentle the harshness of our sometimes conflicted lives. Night is a thing of space and shadows. Louis Untermeyer’s little poem speaks of the world at night when only stars provided light as a place when “Earth, bathed in this holy light/ Is seen without its scars.”

Without the sometime garish light of day, the Earth can seem gentler, quieter. It is then, of course, when we sleep, when we gain that needed sedation. The ending of Thornton Wilder’s play, Our Town is “The strain’s so bad that every sixteen hours everybody lies down and gets a rest.”

Darkness brings us sleep, sleep that “knits up the raveled sleeve of care” and restores the body and the spirit, and enables us to begin each day anew.

We are quite small in the darkness of night. Walk abroad at night, away from the lights of the city and the only lights are those from distant galaxies and stars. Beyond the moon are vast distances, so vast, indeed, that we cannot really imagine them. And who can feel big when measured against such vast distances of space and time?

The constellations are unimpressed with my problems, my bursitis, and this sense of our own littleness, our own unimportance in the larger scheme of things is probably a good thing for you and me. How absurd our little problems seem in the dark distances of space. How petty our concerns. A strong dose of nighttime darkness can cleanse us, purge us of the clutter and the trivialities that accumulate during the sunlight of the day.

That lovely line from Robert Frost: “I have been one acquainted with the night” is one most night walkers can respond to. There is another poem by Frost that touches on this theme. (I have been working on a Frost lecture to give at a Lifelong Learning Institute course on biography that I will be doing in the early spring, so I am filled with Frost these days.) Here is his poem called “Acceptance.”

When the spent sun throws up its rays on cloud

And goes down burning into the gulf below,

No voice in nature is heard to cry aloud

At what has happened. Birds, at least, must know

It is the change to darkness in the sky.

Murmuring something quiet in her breast,

One bird begins to close a faded eye;

Or overtaken too far from his nest,

Hurrying low above the grove, some waif

Swoops just in time to his remembered tree,

At most he thinks or twitters softly, “Safe!

Now let the night be dark for all of me.

Let the night be too dark for me to see

Into the future. Let what will be, be.”

Walt Whitman wrote of “the tender and growing night.” And Keats, in his “Ode to a Nightingale” says “Tender is the night,” which F. Scott Fitzgerald took for the title of his novel. In the darkness, I am part of the world about me. “Darkness has divinity for me,” wrote an English mystic poet.

Others have said something similar. Here is Unitarian minister, A. Powell Davies, writing about Christmas: “In legend upon legend and story after story, Christmas always begins not with daybreak and the coming of morning, but at midnight. It was at midnight that the primitive observances began. It was the darkest hour of the night – not in the glow of morning – that the shepherds of the legend heard the angels sing.”

And, of course, the Wise Men were guided not by the sun but by a star. The legends have grown both beautiful and fanciful. Yet, they have never drifted out of the darkness into a premature daylight. They have stayed quite close to the inner truth from which they draw their substance: the truth that men and women must find their faith, not in the daylight, but in the dark.

In the bright light of our daytime hours, we can sometimes see for many miles, across a street or even a town, or, perhaps, from a mountain top, for a hundred miles. In the darkness of the night, we can see for untold millions of miles, into eternity even. One cannot imagine the poet writing, “I saw eternity the other morning.” Of course not. If eternity is to be seen it will be seen at night, as the seventeenth century poet, Henry Vaughn, had it: “I saw eternity the other night.”

I don’t know what eternity is any more than you do, but I do know that I am content that poets use the word. There is a sense of distance in it and a hint of mystery and of wonder and even awe. Those are good things to have as part of our lives.

To love the night and the darkness is not to forsake the value or importance of light. Someone once said of Mozart’s music: “Joy overtakes sorrow without extinguishing it.” That’s just about perfect. Night overtakes day without extinguishing it.

The days of our years are made up alike of light and of darkness, of days and nights. This little sermonic enterprise today tells us nothing at all that is new. It is but a reminder to us, as the Simon and Garfunkel song said, that darkness is a friend and deserves a better press. “Hello darkness, my old friend/I’ve come to talk with you again.”

Enjoy this season of light but remember that the owl of wisdom comes at dusk.

“Writing to some people is a joke. To me, it is my life. I have never
been in a place where I have felt so welcome, because of my talent.”
Ellen Garfoot

“I plan to keep on writing, because now, the words just flow in my
head. Before this camp, that did not happen. I think this experience
made me a better writer.” Mandie Livermore

“I enjoyed all the speakers, but I enjoyed most the two boys who played
a guitar and the piano. Their songs sounded like good poems put to
music.” Catie Doran

“This camp was the best experience I have had in a long time, because
not only did I enjoy it, but I could share my writing gift with others.”
Andrea Dai

“I was surprised how many jobs are connected to good writing techniques.”
Taylor Sutherland

“I enjoyed how the teachers at camp were always so energetic and
funny. I admire their passion for writing.” Falesha Jacobs

“Thank you so much for letting me participate in this inspiring camp.
I know that I will continue writing throughout the summer.” Lauren
Bexten

“I have come to writing camp for several years, now, and I want to
come back next time and learn even more about writing well. I am a
writer because writing is my born talent. I’ve been writing ever since
kindergarten. Second grade was when my writing skills skyrocketed. In
that class, I wrote at least 20 short stories. Writing is my life.” Gabby
Albeck

“I want to come back to writing camp again. Maybe, you should make
each camp last for two weeks each year, instead of just one. I am sad
that I never heard of Fine Lines and this camp before now. I am going
to try to write as much as I can for the rest of the summer.” Devin
Grier

“I never would have guessed how much writing I could put into my
notebook in five days of writing camp, and I never would have guessed
how much my writing hand hurts now.” Claire Lavender

“This week was so much fun. I really feel like I have learned a lot while
I was here. I have always loved writing. This writing camp showed me
how much I really love poetry.” Emilee Sloan

“Thank you so much for having this camp every summer. This was
my fourth year in a row, and this year I see how much my writing has
really grown. This year was the best year of the four. To be in a room
with a bunch of writers is a powerful thing. A sense of power is noticeable
when there are so many brilliant minds in one room. I always learn
so much here. Thank you. I think I learned over 100 new vocabulary
words this week.” Emma Vinchur

“I wish the camp could have been longer, but I want to thank you for
inspiring so many young people to write and value good communication.
This is a wonderful talent to have. I think it helps people learn, no
matter how old they are.” Carrie Wogeman

“I am so grateful for the opportunity to be a part of this writing workshop.
Each time I attend, I discover something new. The first year of
camp, I began my script of Nutcracker Delights, which is now in its
third year of production. The second year gave way to some great ideas,
and I was prolific. This year was the biggest surprise. I created a children’s
picture book, and I have finished chapter 6. I don’t know how
long it will be. Thank you for letting me bring my dancers and perform
for your campers on the Beveridge stage. I look forward to next year’s
camp and the next and the next.” Julian Adair

“The talent and passion of the Fine Lines teachers are contagious. I am
thrilled to be infected by this group. I did not know what I could do
here when we started this week. I only knew this was a stop I needed
to make. I’m so glad I came. My growth is a newly planted seed, just
beginning to sprout. I’m so very excited.” Gretchen White

“I really appreciate all the instructors’ efforts at this writing camp. The
fact that so many young minds are here to be shaped by these passionate
instructors is truly amazing. We all have stories to tell, worlds to explore,
and lives to lead. Writing is so important to the world, and I am
glad you and the teachers are doing your part to encourage good writing
in both young and old alike.” Adam Young

“I have been coming to your camp for four years now, and it just keeps
growing and growing. When I first came here, I was in sixth grade. I
started my stories simply, like ‘One day, I was sitting on . . . .’ Now, I
write like this, ‘As my eyes awoke to the sounds of nature, the sun’s
rays smacked me in the face.’ I learned so much each year at writing
camp, so I will return next year, too. I found I love to write, and coming
to these camps helped me find that key.” Anne D’Souza

“I am a writer because I love words and putting them together to make
something bigger. Writing makes books, which are very important to
people everywhere. I like making a difference, and writing gets my
voice out into the world.” Katie Hollenbeck

“Growing up in a poor barrio, I saw so many things: violence, drugs,
abuse, robbery, and I also saw some beautiful things: the way people
talked with each other, cared about each other, and the stories they told.
I have so many plots bottled up inside me that I want to tell.” Marco
Bravo

“This week at camp has inspired me to open our home in an attempt to
start our own writers’ group. My wife and I want to encourage others to
‘write on.’ Thank you for your support, resources, intellect, and willingness
to listen and divulge.” Casey Horpedahl

“Fine Lines writing camp has opened me up to new opportunities like
learning about script writing and non-fiction. Fine Lines has also made
me see that other people my age have the same drive and passion for
writing as I do. Writing is integral to life.” Molly Misek

“I feel stuck until I get to writing camp, then a bridge is opened, and I
begin to see what it is about writing, sharing, and creating that hides in
my soul on every other average day. There is a great void that is filled
when I come and make time for Fine Lines and writing. It is my passion.”
Mindy Venditte

“I want to thank you so much for making this camp fun. I can’t imagine
how much time and effort it took to set it up. This experience totally
changed my writing habits. Now, I can write without having to think so
hard.” Amalia Hansen

Elizabeth Baltaro

It was not as scary as we had imagined,
when we opened the metal crypt
that cradled our body, our cadaver.
The first thing I noticed were bright pink nails.
Without stories, clothing, hair, nor jewelry,
the meager remains of a lifetime
were painted on her fingers.

Nail polish, tattoos, or signs of treatments,
age and a brief cause of death -
these facts were surprisingly enough
to allow us this modern rite of passage.
So we claimed this body as our teacher,
probed its layers and examined its depths
an extraordinary and singular journey.

We were all fearful surgeon-infants,
stumbling in our movements,
not wanting to cut too deeply or tear.
Yet, our body waited day by day,
asymmetrically strewn in plastic case,
with head in a translucent bag,
as we got to know this person.

We learned more about this body
than any other we will ever know.
Deep images of this person continue
to churn in our minds.
These pictures make us wonder
about other bodies,
especially our own.

The various textures on a canvas,
heart muscles like tree branches
overlapping in a dense forest.
Fibrous white connective tissue,
spurning sponginess of lungs,
red fading into luminescent tendons,
sweeping in symphony to the bones.

We were filled with desire,
to examine new paths, to see everything,
visiting an untouched wilderness,
with curious formations, trails,
a more interesting variation
than any we had seen or imagined,
our own medical odyssey of learning and maturation.

Sometimes, I took a moment to recognize
we were a room full of humans
dissecting our own species
amidst automatic lights and dispensers,
loud conversations, laughter and electric saws,
shrouded in sharp scent -
indecipherable.

Yet, with my group and cadaver,
our work was lucid.
This master guide of differentiation,
the inside of the human body in death,
had brought me closer to our life force -
the force that once animated this person, and drives us all,
with renewing potential.

David Martin

When I write at a computer, I often hear instrumental music with a piano leading the melody. I never notice words or lyrics. As I place my fingers on the keyboard, I sense a concert hall and a quiet audience, waiting. I hear a symphony in the background, and I see Ludwig van Beethoven in my mind.

Why music? Why the piano? Why Beethoven? More importantly, why at the computer? After years of wondering, the answer became clear to me one night, as I tied sentences together and coasted into the 3 a.m. darkness.

When I was young, my mother and I argued weekly about how much time I should practice the piano. There was a nice Baldwin in the house, and she wanted me to play it.

One day, I heard Mother talking to her friends about classical music. The name “Beethoven” came up in their conversation, and I paid attention every time his name was mentioned. “He was the best German composer,” she said.

At first, I was curious if I could make my fingers please Mom, and I was serious with my lessons for awhile. I practiced, diligently, so I could perform at a planned student recital a few months away. Would she think I was a little Beethoven? The stage fright I experienced at that small gathering killed my interest in playing. I knew Beethoven was beyond my reach.

However, the biggest competition for my piano playing time was baseball. I wanted to play centerfield for the New York Yankees when I grew up. Mickey Mantle, I imagined, was my big brother. I was the oldest child in my family, and I needed a brother to look up to, so I picked him. Fast, strong, able to hit on both sides of the plate, and unstoppable chasing fly balls that would be hits against other outfielders in Major League Baseball, he was my hero.

I loved the grass in “my office.” It smelled good. I thrived on the isolation in the outfield and knew it was my job to manage the players on either side of me. I dared batters on the other team to get a ball past me. That did not happen often.

The respect I got from the coach and the rest of the team motivated me to concentrate on the ball coming out of the pitcher’s hand on each throw, so I could get a jump on the batter’s swing, as he made contact. I had to cover more ground than any other player. I wanted to be the best I could be, and I felt excited when I caught a line-drive on the run, grabbed a pop fly out of the sun, and threw a frozen rope from deep center field to home plate before the opponent on third could score.

My fingers were meant to throw baseballs, not find middle “C” on the piano. I liked the feel of my hand around the leather ball. I felt the gift of strength in my arm, and if I kept practicing, I would receive more praise from my coach and teammates.

Every Saturday at 10 a.m., God bless her, Mother would make sure I was seated on the piano bench doing my scales to warm up before practicing the new piece my instructor assigned for the next session. Weekly, this routine took place. My desire to improve was not as great as hers. While she dreamed of “Moonlight Sonata,” I dreamed of the Chicago White Sox visiting Yankee Stadium.

In the spring, one Saturday morning, my life changed. As I sat on the piano bench absorbed in a new piece of sheet music, three of my closest friends knocked loudly on the front porch door, only a few feet away from me, as I was lost thought.

Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom.

I nearly fell off the piano bench in fright.

One of the boys yelled, “Hey, Dave, we’re going to the baseball field, and we need you to practice some plays. We want to win that first game of the season. Come on.”

Quickly, Mother said, “Tell them you can play in about an hour, after you finish your piano practice.”

“But, Mom, they need me now,” I replied.

“Your promise to me comes first,” she whispered.

The boys on the porch were all older friends from the neighborhood. They played infield positions, because they did not like the outfield. They thought playing there was boring and too much work. They felt better on the dirt, and they needed me to back them up in the outfield.

I was not going to win this contest. Either my friends or Mom would not like my decision. I could always do piano practice later, like my friends said. They would not wait forever. I knew I would be grown up soon, and the Yankees would call me.

Mom’s hands slowly folded across her chest. Her eyes filled with tears.

Beethoven or baseball? I knew that I loved centerfield more than the piano, so I made my move. Fifty years later, I still feel my legs slowly sliding off the piano bench and moving toward the front door.

“Mom, I’ll be back after baseball practice,” I reassured her, but I did not hear her say anything.

As I reached for my leather glove, she reached for the music pages.

When I stepped through the door onto the porch, the oldest boy put his arm around my shoulders and said, “We need you, buddy,” and the other boys agreed.

As I started down one of the many roads I took to reach manhood, I imagined my piano music being torn in half.

Today, in my mind, I sense a bust of Beethoven behind me when I type, and I always write with his music in the background. His powerful notes calm me and let me find inner paths to explore with words. I have no fear of him, anymore, so I write on.

I find time each day to type a little “music,” and sometimes, I talk to him. The music of reflection is a solitary tune. I roll through the storm clouds of life listening to “da-da-da-dum,” as I hear notes coming from the keyboard. The letters that make my words become piano keys, and I don’t look over my shoulders anymore.

Composing my “music” on paper shows me I learned to listen, while playing the piano and running in the sun. I learned the most in both activities when I did not talk, because there is power and strength in finding silent spaces during the day.

The secret of composition is to not think of the ending and what comes before the last page. The best plan is to write one sentence at a time and measure the steps, thoughts, and days in key strokes.

Today, when I watch a ball game, I recall all the fun, challenges, and respect I received at such an early age playing with my friends. Those days defined who I would become many years later. I liked sports, and I could not get my fill. I would love to return to those games and play them one more time.

I raise my hands above the keyboard, once more, and hear Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony with those famous four notes. I am still practicing, Mom. This time I hope to make music, as I struggle to form complete sentences and developed paragraphs. I listen to Beethoven’s notes, but I write my own internal rhythms and play my own tunes.

David Martin

16.4 Winter 2007 Fine Lines

(Often, David Martin stuttered in school, because he could think faster than he could talk. Many times, he felt like a slow learner, but he wanted to become a better student. On his own, he figured out that most class situations revolved around reading issues. If he could read better, he thought he would perform at a higher level. He read as much as he could in his room, alone, and when he started getting better grades, he stuttered less. When he learned to process his answers after hearing the teacher’s questions and was allowed time enough to think his thoughts through, he stopped stuttering altogether. He figured this out by learning to enjoy reading.)

When I was young, I took many things for granted. Like most young people, I assumed things were the way they were for my benefit, and it was hard to put myself into other people’s shoes. I only knew what it was like to have clean drinking water, have three meals a day, have all my limbs working properly, be able to go to school, and receive a college education. I was naïve, self-centered, egotistical, and still had a lot of growing up to do.

Today, I feel like a different person. I do not assume life will work the way I think it should. I see the world through older eyes, and I still count my blessings every day, but I most appreciate being able to read and write.

Only 1% of the people living on this planet have a four-year college education. Although I am the first person on either side of my family to finish college, I knew from the time I was in sixth grade that I was college bound. Mother blessed me with a desire to read. She showed me it was “cool” to go to school. She smiled when I made thoughtful comments. I was no genius, and I was far from the smartest student in my class, but she gave me goals to reach, and those goals included books. She received enjoyment from words, and I could not avoid her enthusiasm.

Before I went to kindergarten, I knew the power of books. Mother read constantly to me and talked about the ideas she learned in those books she brought home from her weekly trips to the library. Next to our church, our town library was the most holy place for her.

At the age of four, I carried her books around the house, one in each hand. I felt older, when I adjusted my stance in order to hold their weight. I was not sure why they made her happy, but if they did, they made me happy, too. I remember sitting on the floor, opening her books one page at a time to feel the different textures of the paper. Some pages were coarse. Some were delicate. I still could not read, but I was amazed at how older boys could, and I knew some day, I would figure out “the code” they learned to decipher the ink marks on all of those pages.

I could not wait to read. I would lie in bed at night wondering what it would be like to read all of those books Mother had in her bedroom and on the bookshelves that were in almost every room of the house. However, my mother refused to teach me. One of her elementary teacher friends warned her about making a mistake if she tried to teach me herself. This teacher friend was worried that Mother would not do it correctly, since she had not attended college. This elementary teacher told Mom that a possible mistake made by her might hurt my chances of performing better, once I reached school, if I did not read properly. Because of this scolding, Mother only showed me pictures from books, talked about biblical stories, and read some of them word for word to me. She would not teach me the alphabet, so I could read myself.

I became so angry, frustrated, and anxious that when I came home from kindergarten, I was crying because I could not read after the first day of school. Mother just laughed and said, “Well, I guess you will have to go back tomorrow, then. Ms. Grimes will teach you some more.”

I started my education feeling inferior. Many of my classmates knew how to read on that first day of school, and I was puzzled. Was I not as smart as those who could read? What was the mystery of all those words on the pages, anyway? I became convinced in my own mind that I would learn what they meant, with or without Mother’s help.

As I got older, I insisted she teach me more than the school teachers tried to do, when it came to reading and communicating ideas. Constantly, I asked her what she was reading and why. I wanted her to tell me what she found interesting in those books. Then, I asked her what the words meant that she used to explain her ideas to me. When she got exasperated after so many questions or when I started asking questions she could not answer, she told me to go outside and play, while she went back to the kitchen.

If Dad happened to be home, instead of going outside to play, like Mom requested, I badgered him to tell me what he was reading in the newspaper before dinner and what he found interesting in those articles. I wanted to communicate with him, but I did not know his vocabulary. While I was growing up, I asked more questions about what my parents were reading than anything else I can remember.

I wanted to tell others what I thought. I wanted to know about life. I did not care if I was smart or not, but I wanted to know what made people wise. I was determined to find out what made leaders find the right answers, so they could lead their people. I wanted to be heard. I knew if I could figure out that code, how to use those letters in the alphabet, I would find out what wisdom meant and how to communicate with others. I felt I had things to say. I had so many questions, and I wanted to discover if there were answers to them. Would people listen? Maybe not, so I became introverted and thought I would be the most important audience for my questions after reading all that I could.

The concept of language centers on having the freedom to know anything. Language unifies people and liberates us. There are languages of anger, music, love, mind, heart, and soul. Language standardizes society and thrives on protest and change.

A healthy language is impure. English is a kind of Creole, a blend, a mixture, a grab-bag language. The English language would not be what it is today without the Angles, Saxons, Frisians, Jutes, Welsh, Danes, Vikings, Celts, Normans, Romans, Greeks, and many other nationalities. What a wonder there is in our words. We cannot refute what moves us. All we have are our passions. We can’t teach others, just inspire them, and words do those things.

“About 93 million adults out of a total adult population of around 221 million (42%) are at basic literacy levels or below. People who are below basic literacy levels can’t carry out the everyday functions that they would normally pursue in American society. They can’t read a bus schedule and see how to get across town. They can’t use most of the self-service ATMs. They can’t fill out the average job application to try to get a job or get a better job. Those who are considered at basic literacy levels are still operating on a very rudimentary level in terms of math skills and in terms of reading capabilities, being unable to draw simple conclusions from reading a column in a newspaper (fifth grade level) or reading a newspaper editorial that may be comparing candidates in a local election” (Robert Wedgeworth, President, ProLiteracy, a comment on the 2005 National Assessment of Adult Literacy Report, ChildrenoftheCode.org).

“There is a profound reading crisis in the United States. Almost 40% of fourth graders do not read even at the basic level, and a majority of students do not read at the proficient level” (James Wendorf, Director, National Center for Learning Disabilities, ChildrenoftheCode.org).

Writing is collected intimacy, a warm hug when the world falls apart, a good looking woman just out of reach, a steaming cup of coffee in the kitchen while the blizzard outside threatens to blow the roof off, seeing a pair of bright eyes across a crowded room, a red-rubber clown nose on a man in a business suit, and stringing sentences together from 3 a.m. to 10 a.m. without moving once from the chair. Writing is more about finding the important questions in life than the correct answers. Discovering what we need to know, what we can’t stop thinking about, what have become our obsessions, and what our passions will do for us – these are the reasons we need to read and write well.

The best teachers are story tellers: Jesus and his parables, John Steinbeck and the Joads, Ernest Hemingway and The Old Man and the Sea, Natalie Goldberg and Writing Down the Bones, Lynne Truss and Eats, Shoots and Leaves, Victor Hugo and Les Miserables.

In school, I disliked history classes because the focus in each one was learning dates and arranging unconnected information. Now, I find myself addicted to the History Channel. Its television programs tell such well written stories, and history is now interesting.

Writing is humanity’s most far-reaching creation. Words convey meaning, are flexible, have magical powers, overthrow governments, and change history. Its forms and designs are endless. Sumerians started writing 5,000 years ago, and today, 85% of the world’s population writes in some form. Writing has the power of innovation and can move hearts and minds. The Egyptians’ phonetical alphabet occurred 3,500 years ago, but there was no mass literacy until after Johann Gutenberg invented the printing press in 1440. Now, there are more than 800 font styles of type.

The Greeks created the first alphabet to have one symbol for each sound. The Latin alphabet evolved from Greek in the sixth century BC. However, Chinese is the only one with individual characters representing individual words.

Writing combats loneliness, creates a sense of self, shows affections of the soul, alleviates depression, boosts the immune system by increasing T-cells, lowers blood pressure, and lets individuals be heard. More than 10,000 languages have been spoken throughout history, but most were never written down. Pages were created in place of scrolls in the second century AD, and spacing was not placed between words until the seventh century.

Reading aloud died slowly. Making sounds while reading was an honor and a mark of distinction showing one’s intelligence. Only recently did we learn to appreciate reading silently. Sharing written language unites people. It is a miracle when a child first puts thoughts and emotions onto paper. Writing requires work at both ends, forming thoughts and reading them.

John Gardner said, “A writer seldom exceeds in quality the books he reads.” Writers, if they are serious, should read all they can, experience life all they can, and write all they can. Only in this way will they acquire worthy content.

William Least Heat Moon, author of Blue Highways, said, “Get off the main roads like the Interstate. Follow the blue roads, the small ones that go through the small towns. Meet the people who really make this country work.” If we want to see the world and pursue our own paths, the most exciting and worthwhile knowledge and wisdom will come to us on those small roads that lead us away from the massive crowds and toward roads less traveled.

According to Bill Wheeler, “Good writing is clear thinking made visible.” Increased clear vision arrives with good prose and poetry. We do not need more “stuff.” We need to use the “stuff” we have in different ways. Let’s make sure our “stuff” has juice in it, the essence of creativity and vision. Good writers and artists of all types transform the ordinary into the extra-ordinary. Do we really need $12,000 of new photographic equipment to take that picture? Can’t we use words to place a “photo” in the reader’s mind of what we want them to see?

Celebrate what is “write” with the world. Use words every day to see the world with new eyes. Focus on clear thinking. Turn mistakes into opportunities. There is more than one right answer. Some people say the answer to good communication is to act like a radio. As far as I am concerned, we need more listeners, because this is the primary aspect of good, specific communication.

John Muir was devoted to nature, and his photos and writing made going into the wilderness attractive to many people. For him, life was beautiful in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Art is the ultimate objective for those who wish to communicate, and he tried to make his life a work of art. Shouldn’t we all?

Artists have three steps to remember. They feel curious and vulnerable while taking risks to capture their passions in their chosen medium. Focusing on the right perspective with the metaphorical right angle and right lens brings clarity to the object. Using the proper technique reframes the difficulty addressed into an opportunity for understanding.

Writers of all ages must remember that good writing is specific writing. Let’s do what we do best and do more with less. Life does not make appointments. It just keeps coming at us. The angles, the colors, the courage, and the joy point our words at universal themes. Keep searching. Believe in small things to make big things happen.

Mother did not have an advanced education, but she possessed the knowledge of many scholars. She read, voraciously, and I saw her wisdom increase with each trip to the library. One of the most important things she taught me was that I must take some time to read every day for pleasure.