Friday, March 5, 2010
New blog
I've taken a break from writing this blog in order to focus on my new one at kickstartyourwriting.wordpress.com. The new blog includes lots of information for writers. See you there.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Poem: Remembering Harding Lake
My poem "Remembering Harding Lake" can be read on p. 64 of http://cirquejournal.com/.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Writing classes
New Writing Class Starts Jan. 20
More students than expected expressed an interest in taking the Kickstart Your Writing class, so an additional session is being offered:
Kickstart Your Writing (Beginning to Intermediate)
Jan. 20-March 24
Wednesdays, 6:30-9 p.m.
Northeast Portland location
10 weeks, $200.
Registration deadline: Jan. 18
And there's still room in this class:
Kickstart Your Writing II (Advanced)
Jan. 23-March 27
Saturdays, 6:30-9 p.m.
Northeast Portland location
10 weeks, $200.
Registration deadline: Jan. 18
To register or for more information: wordpics@aracnet.com, (503) 288-2469.
Read what students say about Kickstart Your Writing:
I love the class and your support. Thanks, Nancy! The class helped me establish goals and a regular writing schedule. It is also very helpful to hear the ups and downs of other writers, for support and for the relationship aspect. — Sarah Retzer
Thank you, Nancy. You are a great motivator and coach. I have learned a lot and hope to continue. (The class) gave me a better sense of how to proceed with the material I had (and) increased my confidence in my writing. — A. S.
This class has been really helped me make writing a priority and take myself seriously. I was surprised to see how much I responded to having the deadlines of reading in class. Thank you! — Lisa Serrano
The class helped me focus on establishing writing goals and meeting them. Nancy is a very knowledgeable teacher as well as a supportive coach. I learned so much from other students in the class — they are very talented writers. I valued the diversity in this class — different backgrounds, variety of written material and styles made the class interesting and challenging. — K. E.
More students than expected expressed an interest in taking the Kickstart Your Writing class, so an additional session is being offered:
Kickstart Your Writing (Beginning to Intermediate)
Jan. 20-March 24
Wednesdays, 6:30-9 p.m.
Northeast Portland location
10 weeks, $200.
Registration deadline: Jan. 18
And there's still room in this class:
Kickstart Your Writing II (Advanced)
Jan. 23-March 27
Saturdays, 6:30-9 p.m.
Northeast Portland location
10 weeks, $200.
Registration deadline: Jan. 18
To register or for more information: wordpics@aracnet.com, (503) 288-2469.
Read what students say about Kickstart Your Writing:
I love the class and your support. Thanks, Nancy! The class helped me establish goals and a regular writing schedule. It is also very helpful to hear the ups and downs of other writers, for support and for the relationship aspect. — Sarah Retzer
Thank you, Nancy. You are a great motivator and coach. I have learned a lot and hope to continue. (The class) gave me a better sense of how to proceed with the material I had (and) increased my confidence in my writing. — A. S.
This class has been really helped me make writing a priority and take myself seriously. I was surprised to see how much I responded to having the deadlines of reading in class. Thank you! — Lisa Serrano
The class helped me focus on establishing writing goals and meeting them. Nancy is a very knowledgeable teacher as well as a supportive coach. I learned so much from other students in the class — they are very talented writers. I valued the diversity in this class — different backgrounds, variety of written material and styles made the class interesting and challenging. — K. E.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Writing class
I'm offering a writing class: Kickstart Your Writing. 10 weeks. Mondays, 6:30-9 p.m. Jan. 18-March 22. $200. Northeast Portland, OR. www.nancywoods.org.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Taking part in reading on November 23, 2009
On Monday, Nov. 23 at 7 p.m., I'll be reading an excerpt from my short story "That Day on the River," which won honorable mention from the 2009 Oregon Writers Colony contest. The reading will take place at Looking Glass Bookstore, 7983 S.E. 13th Ave., Portland, Oregon.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
That Day on the River
I just found out my short story "That Day on the River" won honorable mention in this year's Oregon Writers Colony contest. Contest winners will take part in a reading Nov. 23, 2009 at Looking Glass Bookstore, 7983 S.E. 13th Ave., in Portland, Oregon. Here's the story:
That Day on the River
The day Twerp fell in the river I remember wishing I hadn't yelled at her like that. I mean some of us are just born a pain in the you-know-what; and the rest of us are, well, easier to get along with. We were up the Badger River in central Alaska on a family fishing trip, which we did almost every weekend in the summer. By “we” I mean Mom, Dad, my sister Twerp, my brother Twig and me.
The Badger is a dangerous river, cold and swift, with invisible whirlpools, backwashes and sweepers (low-hanging branches just waiting to scrape some poor kid off a boat). It was a nice day in June, though, so it didn't seem like a day when anything bad could happen. I was about ten years old, which meant Twerp would have been seven.
The ride to the cabin took a couple of hours. Once we got there, Dad tied the boat to the water pump, and I started fooling around with it. It was fun to pump the handle hard until river water gushed out all over the place. The minute I started having some fun, though, Twerp started horning in.
"My turn!" she insisted, trying to pull my hands off the pump handle. "You have to take turns."
"No I don’t," I said. "There's plenty of stuff to do around here. Go find your own fun."
"It's not fair," Twerp said, stomping her feet. To listen to Twerp, she was always getting the short end of some stick. "I'll tell Mom," she said. Now, there was nothing that made me want to do my sister's bidding less than her threats to take things to upper management. I maintained a firm grip on the pump.
"Mom!" Twerp yelled toward the cabin. "Twyla isn't sharing! It's my turn to play with the pump."
"Back off," I hissed. "Stop copying my life."
"Stop it right now, you two," Mom called from the top of the bank where she stood with a dishtowel in her hand. "I don't want to hear another word. Not one. Not on such a fine day. Twyla, you share."
"Let me, let me," Twerp said, pulling at my arm.
I could hardly see her, what with the sun shining off her teeth because she couldn't keep her big mouth shut.
"Oh, take your damn turn," I said before walking away. I didn't even bother to look back. Instead, I wandered out onto the boat to watch Dad. He was working on the motor. Several minutes passed before he said, "Where's Twerp?"
I shrugged my shoulders. What did I care, right, as long as she wasn't in my hair? But then I noticed the silence and realized something wasn't right. Twerp was never quiet. Never. Dad must have had the same idea I did. We looked at each other, then turned and looked back toward shore. There, by the water pump, all we could see were white bubbles in the water.
Dad pushed me out of the way and took what seemed like impossibly big leaps back to where Twerp had been. He stepped right on the duffel bags and tackle boxes and fishing poles, something that at any other time he would have yelled at us kids for doing.
What he pulled out of the water didn't look like anything living. It was all loose. The only things that looked familiar were Twerp's yellow boots.
I remember looking at them and then up at Mom. She must have come out to call us for lunch or something, but when she saw Twerp and Dad, her mouth fell open and stayed that way. Dad was holding Twerp upside down and pounding on her back. And that moment, for the first time in my life I realized what life would be like without her, how it would leave this big hole that we would have to walk around for the rest of our lives. And I realized how quiet everything would be. Too quiet.
Just then, Twig walked around the corner of the cabin carrying an ax. When he saw what was happening, he dropped the ax. It landed on the dirt and raised a cloud of brown smoke. Dad put his finger in Twerp's mouth and yelled, "Breathe, you little shit kicker. Breathe!" She must have heard him, because just then Twerp started to cough and choke, which made us laugh, which made her angry. Twerp hates to be laughed at.
That night, inside the cabin, after the sun had gone down and we’d finished eating dinner, we continued to sit around the table as Dad lit the Coleman lantern that hung overhead. The shiny table threw back the yellow light as, for the first time, Dad told the story we would come to call “The Day Twerp Almost Drowned.”
"Someone must have been watching," Dad whispered as he lit the first of the two bootie-shaped mantles. "Otherwise, how do you explain my turning around just then to check on Twerp?"
And we all nodded, knowing something mysterious had happened. We'd almost lost Twerp but she'd been saved. I couldn't take my eyes off her. Her braids were all washed now and freshly combed and she was wearing her flannel pajamas so clean and soft. She was enjoying all the attention, of course. Almost made you think she'd done the whole thing on purpose. Ever since the accident, she'd refused to leave Mom's lap, where she sat with a big smile on her face.
###
That Day on the River
The day Twerp fell in the river I remember wishing I hadn't yelled at her like that. I mean some of us are just born a pain in the you-know-what; and the rest of us are, well, easier to get along with. We were up the Badger River in central Alaska on a family fishing trip, which we did almost every weekend in the summer. By “we” I mean Mom, Dad, my sister Twerp, my brother Twig and me.
The Badger is a dangerous river, cold and swift, with invisible whirlpools, backwashes and sweepers (low-hanging branches just waiting to scrape some poor kid off a boat). It was a nice day in June, though, so it didn't seem like a day when anything bad could happen. I was about ten years old, which meant Twerp would have been seven.
The ride to the cabin took a couple of hours. Once we got there, Dad tied the boat to the water pump, and I started fooling around with it. It was fun to pump the handle hard until river water gushed out all over the place. The minute I started having some fun, though, Twerp started horning in.
"My turn!" she insisted, trying to pull my hands off the pump handle. "You have to take turns."
"No I don’t," I said. "There's plenty of stuff to do around here. Go find your own fun."
"It's not fair," Twerp said, stomping her feet. To listen to Twerp, she was always getting the short end of some stick. "I'll tell Mom," she said. Now, there was nothing that made me want to do my sister's bidding less than her threats to take things to upper management. I maintained a firm grip on the pump.
"Mom!" Twerp yelled toward the cabin. "Twyla isn't sharing! It's my turn to play with the pump."
"Back off," I hissed. "Stop copying my life."
"Stop it right now, you two," Mom called from the top of the bank where she stood with a dishtowel in her hand. "I don't want to hear another word. Not one. Not on such a fine day. Twyla, you share."
"Let me, let me," Twerp said, pulling at my arm.
I could hardly see her, what with the sun shining off her teeth because she couldn't keep her big mouth shut.
"Oh, take your damn turn," I said before walking away. I didn't even bother to look back. Instead, I wandered out onto the boat to watch Dad. He was working on the motor. Several minutes passed before he said, "Where's Twerp?"
I shrugged my shoulders. What did I care, right, as long as she wasn't in my hair? But then I noticed the silence and realized something wasn't right. Twerp was never quiet. Never. Dad must have had the same idea I did. We looked at each other, then turned and looked back toward shore. There, by the water pump, all we could see were white bubbles in the water.
Dad pushed me out of the way and took what seemed like impossibly big leaps back to where Twerp had been. He stepped right on the duffel bags and tackle boxes and fishing poles, something that at any other time he would have yelled at us kids for doing.
What he pulled out of the water didn't look like anything living. It was all loose. The only things that looked familiar were Twerp's yellow boots.
I remember looking at them and then up at Mom. She must have come out to call us for lunch or something, but when she saw Twerp and Dad, her mouth fell open and stayed that way. Dad was holding Twerp upside down and pounding on her back. And that moment, for the first time in my life I realized what life would be like without her, how it would leave this big hole that we would have to walk around for the rest of our lives. And I realized how quiet everything would be. Too quiet.
Just then, Twig walked around the corner of the cabin carrying an ax. When he saw what was happening, he dropped the ax. It landed on the dirt and raised a cloud of brown smoke. Dad put his finger in Twerp's mouth and yelled, "Breathe, you little shit kicker. Breathe!" She must have heard him, because just then Twerp started to cough and choke, which made us laugh, which made her angry. Twerp hates to be laughed at.
That night, inside the cabin, after the sun had gone down and we’d finished eating dinner, we continued to sit around the table as Dad lit the Coleman lantern that hung overhead. The shiny table threw back the yellow light as, for the first time, Dad told the story we would come to call “The Day Twerp Almost Drowned.”
"Someone must have been watching," Dad whispered as he lit the first of the two bootie-shaped mantles. "Otherwise, how do you explain my turning around just then to check on Twerp?"
And we all nodded, knowing something mysterious had happened. We'd almost lost Twerp but she'd been saved. I couldn't take my eyes off her. Her braids were all washed now and freshly combed and she was wearing her flannel pajamas so clean and soft. She was enjoying all the attention, of course. Almost made you think she'd done the whole thing on purpose. Ever since the accident, she'd refused to leave Mom's lap, where she sat with a big smile on her face.
###
Friday, October 2, 2009
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