New Writers' Featured Member

March 1999

Elsie Roark

Photo by Louann Johnson

In introducing Elsie Roark to you I could talk of her marvelous talent as a yet undiscovered writer. But, you can read her writing in this Showcase of Works, and experience her memorable gift for yourself. I have chosen instead to share some of my thoughts of Elsie and the reason she has been selected as this month’s Featured Writer of the Month.

Our goal at the New Writer’s E-mail List is to maintain a comfortable place for all writers to submit their work for critique; to provide encouragement and motivation of our members to keep writing; and, to provide a place to share our achievements and disappointments along the way to becoming a well published author. Elsie Roark has, from the moment she first joined us, freely given of her self and her talents in helping us achieve that goal. She offers helpful critiques of most every work submitted to the List with a gentleness and honesty which reveals her concern for her fellow members. She reveals a delightful sense of humor in occasional posts to the List, encouraging us to look at ourselves much less seriously, and to remember that we have chosen to work at perfecting our individual talents because of our need to be authors. I guess my favorite of these was a short note describing the beauty of an early morning with birds sitting on a fence chirping, "Critique, critique".

Elsie is truly a representative us all on the New Writers’ List. For this reason she has been selected as the Featured Writer of the Month for March 1999.

Luglenda S. McClain
Moderator

An Interview with Elsie Roark

Elsie's Tip to New Writers

A Showcase of Elsie's Work

Some of Elsie's Favorite Links

AN INTERVIEW WITH ELSIE ROARK

How Do You Find Time To Write?

I’ve learned to be a little selfish. When you reach the point where you think you might be doing something worthwhile, you can steal the time and not feel too guilty about it.

I’ve been writing something since the time I learned how to write, but only about six months with any discipline. Before that, I had little more than a desire that was easily overridden by everyday life.

When I was in the fifth grade - many moons ago - my teacher liked a poem I wrote so well she asked if she could show it to a class she was taking at the local university. I remember making many handwritten copies, and feeling very special. I couldn’t tell you now what the poem was about or if I ever knew what her class' reactions to it were, but I can remember the feelings I had just like it was yesterday. Someone actually was interested in what I had to say! This was pretty heady stuff for a shy ten-year-old. I liked it.

My best friend, Edna Ratliff. I don’t know that she inspired me, but she’s pushed me along all the way. She’s a writer, too, and she’s my motivation to keep at it. We chat on the net most every night, and her first question is always, "Well, have you been writing today?"

I guess my all-time favorite is John Steinbeck, who wrote about ordinary people. I also like David Eddings, who creates his characters so well they almost become your friends, and Brian Jacques, who wrote a series of books called the Tales of Redwall. This is a series for older children, the characters are all animals, but the books are a great read at any age. Oh, yes, and Jesse Stuart, a writer from the ‘30's who wrote about mountain people. I treasure my collection of Foxfire books too, because of the wealth of information they contain.

To be published, of course. I think it would be very gratifying to walk into the local bookstore and see a little book of my short stories right up there by the checkout. You know, where they display the local talent? Of course, to see one of my stories in the New Yorker wouldn’t be bad, either.

I get the most gratification from writing stories about Appalachia. This is where I came from and who I am.

Fantasy has long been my favorite genre to read, but my few attempts at writing it have produced some real birdcage liners. There is already so much good writing out there in the fantasy field. It’s nearly impossible to find a tale that hasn’t already been told hundreds of times.

I’m pretty reticent about things that are personal to me, so when I did come out of the closet, so to speak, most were a bit amazed. Everyone is supportive, but I think they tend to look at it as a hobby more than a vocation.

I’ve been accused of being obsessed with the "old days". I want to learn how things were done a hundred years ago, and do my part to keep the knowledge alive. I wouldn’t be eager to give up indoor plumbing or my computer, but it’s good to know how to be self-sufficient. I’m appalled at the number of children and young adults who have no idea how the food they eat gets to the grocery shelves. Not only may basic survival and homesteading skills be necessary at some point in time to each of us, but they are also part of our heritage. It would be a shame if they were lost.

ELSIE'S TIP TO NEW WRITERS

What Kind Of Advice Would You Offer A New Writer?

It’s pretty simple. Write, write, write. And read the rest of the time. Continuing to read what other authors have produced will give you insight into your own writing.

Join a writer’s group, either where you live or on the Internet. I think the anonymity of the Internet is especially good at first when one is a bit afraid to submit their work for public viewing. Also, as you grow as a writer, go back and reread all those writer’s magazines and textbooks that you’ve accumulated. What they’re saying will fall into place much easier as you become more experienced.

A Showcase of Elsie's Work

Life' Dream

Changes and Beginnings

Love, Sin, and Widow's Benefits

Some of my favorite works of Elsie's can be found on the New Writers' Choice Selection Exercise Pages. Please use your browers' back button to return to this page.

Lucy's Walk into Another World
Crazy Mary and the Shiny Vase

LIFE'S DREAMS

By Elsie Roark

866 Words

Little Willie’s scrawny arms ached from chopping. Leaning on the hoe, he gazed down the rows of corn that stretched out before him and disappeared over the ridge, seeming to have no end.

The beginnings of a rumble meandered around inside him, signaling a hunger never quite satisfied. His oldest sister was probably putting dinner on the table right then, a meager layout of cornbread and a gallon jug of milk, with maybe some greens or fried cabbage. Not very doggoned much to keep a fieldhand going, but his was not the only mouth to feed on this hillside farm.

Willie would be jostled and shoved at the table by his older brother and sisters and Granny would make sure the youngest got their fill. A skinny boy of nine didn’t have much chance at mealtime around his house.

Willie could recall the one time his stomach was filled to bursting, but it wasn’t a pleasant memory. He had been about seven then, and thought he had surely died and gone to heaven because there they were, all feeding their faces and a big bowl of fried potatoes still sitting in the middle of the table. Not wanting to take a chance on losing what looked like a golden opportunity, Willie dared to reach across and fill his plate clear out to the edge. Leaning into the steaming heap, he took his first bite, his little face registering shock and indignation. Turnips! Granny made him made him sit there until he cleaned up the entire pile, making Willie dead sure he would never like that particular vegetable as long as he lived.

"Come on, Willie, Mommy said we could go eat now."

It was his sister, already gaining distance on him by virtue of her two years more experience in getting to the table first. He dropped his hoe, trying to catch Rosie, but her long legs outdistanced him easily. They hit the porch still running, slamming the screen door and earning themselves a threatening look from the adults already at the table.

Rosie scooted into the last empty chair, leaving Willie no choice but to share a seat with his younger brother, Hughie. Seven kids and three adults made for a shortage of seating around this particular table. Sure enough, there sat the milk jug, right in the middle, but instead of the usual two heat-blackened pans of cornbread there were two loaves of store-bought white bread.

Willie’s stomach rumblings were matched at least twice around the table at the sight of this extraordinary thing. Down at the end, Granny had her best butcher knife in hand, busily slicing a roll of something that had to be meat wrapped in a crimson-colored covering. The mysterious roll gave off an aroma that reached all around the table, an essence that surely must be what heaven smelled like. The young faces watched in awe as the old woman piled the plate high with aromatic slices, then handed it to Rosie, the nearest. Rosie put a slice on her plate, almost with reverence, for once forgetting to be her usual obnoxious self. Looking for guidance in this culinary adventure, they waited until the adults placed a slab of the mysterious meat between their two slices of bread, the youngsters for once not trying to see who could eat the most in the shortest time.

Willie’s first bite made him giddy. He did not know what this was, but it had to be the best God ever invented. He ate slowly, savoring, not noticing the uncommon quiet around the table as everyone chewed and reflected on their good fortune. Too soon, it was gone. The small place inside his flat little belly, that place that never quite filled up, seemed all the more empty because it had been treated to the best there could ever be. Even hoeing corn the rest of the day would be tolerable, knowing that the world held such rewards as the meal his family had just finished.

They went to bed that night, happy still. His older brother started the game they played sometimes, predicting what lay ahead for them. Willie tried to pretend he was already sleeping, knowing things were different now. He had something to look forward to, something real and tangible . . . a purpose.

"When I grow up, I’m goin’ North and get a good job and buy myself a big fancy car," his older brother started out, as usual. "What about you, Hughie?"

Right on cue, little Hughie picked it up. "When I grow up, I’m goin’ North and get a good job and a car and some new shoes, and live in a house where I get to sleep my myself," he added, shoving Willie"s foot away from his face. "What about you, Willie?"

"Willie? What are you gonna do?"

Willie rolled over, gazing out the window at the stars shining on his new world. He smiled to himself, rubbing his stomach absently before he finally answered.

"When I grow up, I’m goin’ North and get a real good job. Then I’m goin’ out and buy me a whole roll of baloney."

The End

© 1999 Elsie Roark

This piece is based on a real letter written by a man in Kentucky at the turn of the century.

CHANGES AND BEGINNINGS

By Elsie Roark

532 Words

The mule stepped carefully around the ruts in the dirt road, heading slowly for the little cabin nestled against the hillside. Two men waited on the porch, watching the slow progress of the mailman as he made his way up the hollow. The younger, little more than a boy, twitched and danced with excitement as the mailman drew a letter from his pouch.

*************************

Dear Pa and John,

Your son,
Henry

***********************

The old man turned the letter over and over in his hands as he gazed out over the bottomland stretching away to the foothills beyond. This letter written so laboriously with the stub of a pencil by his firstborn son; the son that all this good land was meant to belong to someday. One hundred acres given to his family in a land grant a century ago, payment to his grandpap-two times-back for service to a struggling new country. It was the old man’s life’s blood, this hillside farm. He knew every cliff, every stand of hickories where the squirrels dropped bits of half-eaten nuts into the copper leaves laying beneath, every spring that cascaded cold and clear from somewhere deep inside the mountain.

"Pa, what’s Henry say? What’s he say it’s like up there?"

"Nothin'. He don’t say nothin', just he got there all right," the old man sighed. "I guess he's satisfied."

John jumped off the porch, his young mind bursting with the wonder of life on the Ohio River. Henry was just across the river from Cincinnati! What could a town like that be like? It might as well be the moon, it seemed so far away. Henry had been gone a month almost, and it must have taken half that to get to Covington. John couldn’t begin to imagine what adventures his brother encountered along the way. And him with a pretty new wife along, besides. Some men just plain had all the luck.

"Whew! I bet ol' Henry’s havin' the time of his life right now, Pa. I bet he don’t care if he never sees these mountains again."

The old man folded the letter carefully into the pocket of his overalls, knowing his eldest would never return. Times were changing, he realized, looking at his youngest clearly for the first time since the mailman delivered the letter. John would leave, too, the first chance he had.

Things didn’t mean what they ought to young folks, anymore, land and family and pride in what you had. Things you grew on land untouched before your own people came there, a farm built with hard work by your family as far back as you could remember. These things just didn’t stack up to working in factories and riding on streetcars. Money in their pockets, that’s all they wanted. Well, by God, he was born here and he would die right here in the same place. Satisfied, he leaned the old ladder back chair against the house, and silently waited . . .

The End

© 1999 Elsie Roark

Love, Sin, and Widow's Benefits

Nell glared at the papers spread out on the kitchen table. So much for schoolgirl romance and wedded bliss, she thought sourly, staring at the tightly written lines of legal garbage. A premarital agreement ... the end result of her son’s metamorphosis into a sanctimonious ass.

Rich had been blown away when she’d told him she was thinking about - just considering, mind you - getting remarried. Nell hadn’t expected him to be overjoyed, but the force of her son’s anger had been like a slap in the face. Had he dared, he would have forbidden the marriage on the spot, but settled for shouting and ranting about how his mother must be losing her mind. Didn’t she realize what she would be giving up? Didn’t she know she would lose her widow’s benefits, due to start in less than a year? On and on, until finally, he had stormed out the front door , slamming it hard enough to set the neighbor’s dog to barking.

Nell had refused to cry. Rich had been too close to his father, the bond between the two men so strong that, perversely, her son had been unable to face the wasting away of his father’s body and mind. Rich had opted to absent himself as much as possible from the house filled with sickroom supplies, darkened rooms and the putrid smell of terminal illness. Never leaving the hospital bed set up in the middle of the living room, sleeping in a recliner - when she slept - she would imagine the odor of death permeating her skin and remaining there the rest of her life. Rich, lost in his grief, never noticed his mother’s exhaustion. She’d stumbled through the three days of funeral activity, barely functional, and resorted to rudeness in order to empty the house of well-meaning friends and family. Locking the doors, unplugging the phone, Nell slept for fourteen hours straight.

Bill Wilkerson appeared one rainy day to fix the water meter, not exactly the beginning of a Cinderella story. Nell, usually cautious, offered him a cup of coffee. He reappeared a few days later, just to check the meter - he said - and as they say in the movies, the rest is history. He gave up on pretense by his third visit, and they settled into a comfortable friendship.

Smiling, Nell dropped the papers on the table, remembering the night that friendship changed into something much more. She’d asked Bill over to watch tv on Saturday night, and he brought along a six pack and a bottle of her favorite white wine.

The combination of a blatantly sentimental movie and more alcohol than she was used to drinking had washed away any inhibitions either of them might have had. They spent the rest of the night in Nell’s bed. It wasn’t the bell-ringing, fireworks-blasting, we’ve-invented-something-wonderful sex of youth. It was the sweaty, satisfying lovemaking that happens between two people who already know the dance steps ... even if the partners are new. She held his hand until dawn, wondering at the energy neither of them should have still had. She missed church the next morning in order to fix his breakfast, an event that happened enough Sundays afterward to prompt the minister to inquire about her spiritual needs.

Lost in thought, Nell jumped at the strident briiing, briiiing of the door bell. Shuffling the papers into a neat pile, she wondered who it might be. Only strangers came to the front door. Peeking through the curtains , she could see a woman waiting on her porch. Probably collecting for some charity, she figured, or one of those infernal surveys people were always taking.

"You must be Nell ."

The attractive, middle-aged woman on her doorstep didn’t ask a question, she made a statement. Nell wondered who in the hell she was, and reading Nell’s mind, the woman said, "I’m Beverly Wilkerson."

My God, Nell thought, it’s The Bitch. She’d heard about her often enough, Bill getting quite eloquent about his ex-wife when he had a few beers. Up until now, Nell never knew the woman’s name. Momentarily dumfounded, thoughts chased each other through Nell’s head. Funny, she doesn’t look like a bitch. What’s she doing here?

Once again, as if privy to Nell’s thoughts, the woman spoke. "I don’t even know why I’m here except that I wanted to see the woman that Bill is going to marry," the words coming out fast and run-together, like a speech practiced in front of a mirror.

Nell puffed her cheeks, blowing, the air escaping out the sides of her mouth, as she realized she had been holding her breath. Stepping back, she found her voice. "Come on in."

It was obvious the woman had taken a lot of time with her appearance before she turned up on Nell’s doorstep. She looked like she should be meeting a lover instead of her ex-husband’s new flame. A tall woman, with an air of natural sensuality, Beverly made Nell think of the word "presence" more than anything. That was it, she had "presence". Nell had never felt more frumpy than she did at that moment.

Once inside, some of Beverly’s self-assurance seemed to dissipate. Nell tried to steer the conversation around to the real reason for this visit, wanting nothing so much as to get it over with. Desperate, she asked, "What do you want to know?"

"Nothing. I don’t want to know anything. I guess I just wanted to see you face to face. I knew something was in the air when Bill stopped coming around - he still came around a lot even after the divorce - then he stopped. Finally he told me he had met someone." Still the rush of words tumbling one over another, but this time accompanied by a rueful smile. "So .... I also came to ask you if you would give him these papers for me. I’m selling the house, and it’s part of the property settlement. He’ll need to sign these. I guess if Bill is moving on, then it’s time for me to do the same."

Rising, Beverly said, " That’s it then. Good luck."

Clutching the envelope , Nell stood rooted to the rug for what seemed a very long time. Finally , casting aside the web of inertia that wrapped its fingers around her body, she made her way back to the table, tossing the envelope on the pile of papers already there. Love, lust, fairy tales ... all buried beneath a stack of papers.

The End

© 1999 Elsie Roark

Some of Elsie's Favorite Links

Hillsweb
Writopia
American Local History Network
Fiction Writers Connection
E-Mail Elsie

Visit Often to Learn about the New Writers' List Featured Writer
A Different Member Will be Featured Each Month!

Previous Showcased Writers

February 1999 Featured Writer of the Month, Lauren Roche
January 1999 Featured Writer of the Month, Barry Blackmore

<sup>Like this Page ?

Please email a friend !</sup>

'Some Really Beautiful Web Designs!'