A Quiet Stranger by Lorna Czarnota

CopyrightCzarnota2009
No portion of this story may be duplicated in any form without permission from the author.

I remember when I was a young teen, I went someplace with my mom and she left her purse sitting on a table or in a shopping cart unattended.

I asked, “Aren’t you going to take your purse? Somebody might steal it.”

Her reply to me was “If somebody takes it, they needed it more than I do.”

We lived in a different time. We lived in a time when people seldom stole things they didn’t need. Oh yes, there have always been bandits but they almost never bothered everyday people. People who stole from folks like my family would have been so hungry they would perish without the food or their families so in need. As far as I can recall, nobody would have stolen from us just to feed a drug habit or because they wanted more “bling.” Times are different now and I don’t advocate anyone leaving belongings sitting around. It makes me sad to have to say so.

Once, when my Nana was a young woman she said she and her husband went to a conference in Boston. She was always a well-dressed woman and wore her usual high heels. While her husband went to the conference, she walked, toured and went shopping. The heels were hard on her feet so she stopped at a shoe store. According to Nana, she drove the salesman crazy as she tried almost every shoe they had. In the end, she found the perfect pair, but alas when going to pay for them, realized she had no money. The whole day had passed and she was so disappointed. But Nana also lived in a different time. Seeing her dilemma and disappointment, the owner of the store said, “You just wear those shoes and when you have time come back and pay for them.” Nana did just that. Now, this might happen in a small neighborhood store today, but Nana was a stranger in a strange city. That most likely would not happen today.

Both of these incidents and these wonderful women, my mom and my Nana, taught me a valuable lesson that I have carried with me into adulthood. As the saying goes “Be kind to strangers because you never know when you might be in the presence of angels.” I believe that. They are with us everywhere. The following is a story I wrote to honor this idea. My mother inspired it.

A Quiet Stranger by Lorna MacDonald Czarnota (In loving memory of Mom 1928-2009.)

Two sisters sat with their mending in their laps one late chill spring night. The small lantern and a meager fire in the hearth were their only sources of light and rain pummeled the roof of their tiny two-room house.

It had been three years since their father passed, an old man and well loved. Their mother had been gone almost as long as they had been alive; it seemed to them only yesterday.

Never having much in the way of wealth, the two had each other. They took in mending and laundry from the village at the foot of the mountain; a good long walk to travel with their finished work.

Suddenly the two were startled from their half sleep, the work of the day still heavy in their hands. It was a knock on the door.

“Who might call at such an hour?” asked the eldest.

“And in such a storm?” said the youngest.

Thinking that it must surely be an emergency for someone to be there under these conditions, but living alone in so far a place, the two went arm-in-arm to the door.

“Who is there?” asked the eldest. There was no reply, but another hard knock.

She opened the door slowly while her younger sister stood just behind her, gazing over her right shoulder.

As the door swung into the house, by the faint light of the lantern, the girls could just make out a cloaked tiny figure. A slight voice, no more than a hollow whisper issued from beneath the hood.

“It is cold and wet. A bed and something to eat?”

What could the two sisters do but allow this tiny being to enter from the rain? Just inside the door they stood as the visitor entered, never removing the hood but walking straight to the fireplace and holding out two small and wrinkled hands.

“Our father would have bade you welcome were he alive,” the older sister spoke with good intent.

“But you do not?” the hooded voice asked.

Now the youngest girl spoke up. “We do, but we have little to offer.”

“Only broth that is left from our last meal,” said the eldest.

Now, those old hands reached up and pulled back the hood to reveal a silver haired woman of ancient age. “Broth and the floor by your fire is enough.”

The girls motioned this strange woman to sit at the table and brought her broth. She sipped and slurped and drank the final drop of what was in the wooden bowl. As she did, her eyes widened in surprise for indeed while the small house was plain, the inside bottom of the bowl was elaborately carved.

“This is a lovely thing,” she said in the raspy voice of someone so aged.

Almost as quickly as she had finished the broth, at her words, the youngest sister grabbed the bowl from her hands, rinsed it and placed it back on the mantel where it was kept and said, “It was our mother’s. Father carved it with his own hands as a wedding gift. We cherish it greatly.”

“Indeed.” The visitor said. “And might I have a drink of water?”

The eldest sister picked up the pewter cup that sat beside the bowl and filled it, not with water but with a little warm wine. “Drink this. It will help with the cold.”

The old woman drank and remarked at the lovely cup. “Also your mother’s?”

The sisters nodded.

“And that book too?” the visitor asked pointing to the mantel with a boney finger.

The youngest sister took up the book, its binding broken and pages nearly falling out. She clutched it to her breast. “Yes. Mama always read us a story at bedtime from this book and we still read to each other.”

The old woman said nothing but nodding her understanding, rose and spread her cloak by the fireside to lie on the hard dirt floor. Before she could do so, the eldest sister brought a straw mat from their own bed.

“We had two. This at least should help.”

Still the stranger was quiet. She lay upon the mat, her cloak over her and soon fell asleep. The girls read softly as they always did and then tiptoed to their own room. The youngest, uncertain of their safety with a stranger in the house, pulled the bolt on their door.

The night passed quietly without so much as a breeze at the window. The sisters went to the main room to break their fast and feed their guest but already the old woman was gone, the mat neatly rolled, and the door closed snuggly.

“Not so much as thank you,” said the youngest girl with a look of disgust. She bent to stir a coal from beneath the ashes to make a fire to warm their water when her eyes froze at the empty mantel. She was silent in disbelief for a breath. “Gone! They are all gone! The cup, the bowl our book!”

Her sister joined her side looking as if they might have fallen onto the floor.

“That old crow has stolen them!” the youngest roared. “Why would she take them?”

Although her sister was as disappointed and perhaps even angered at the theft, she recalled their father’s words, “Perhaps she needed them more than we.”

“Nonetheless, it was wrong,” the youngest said.

“Wrong or not, our father would forget it.”

And so they did. Though the empty mantel stared at them and they missed their only treasures, those things that held their memories were but things after all. As time passed they once more found the memories and even recalled the many stories held within the book so that they told them rather than read each night as they prepared for bed. The old visitor had become a shadow, faint and distant when the snows of an early winter began to fall.

So far from the village and atop the mountain, it was not long for the snow to pile up beneath the windows of that house. What scraps of cloth remaining from their mending, the girls stuffed in the cracks to keep the wind at bay. And now the nights were long and their food was that which they had stored through the year in a root cellar. The fire at the hearth was used sparingly so that the woodpile would last all winter long. The lantern burned only when necessary and the girls burrowed beneath their quilts for warmth.

Late October and November passed slowly. December came and with it the promise of Christmas and remembrances of those they had lost over the years. The two sisters secretly made gifts for each other, out of whatever they could find; beautiful simple things by hand, with love and joyfully made. One was wrapped in an old piece of satin from someone’s dress the girls had shortened; another was wrapped in moss harvested in the fall from beneath the old apple tree on the hillside. The cold was now outside the house, and all the warmth of the Holiday upon them.

The sisters giggled and poked each other in the side as they made a warm breakfast on Christmas morning and tied ribbons in each other’s hair. It was at that moment of absolute joy that they heard a familiar knock upon the door. A hard knock, a knock they had heard on a chill spring night months ago.

The two froze at the sound and looked at each other. The youngest sister took her gifts and hid them, afraid that the old woman had returned to take the last of their joys. The oldest sister was reluctant to open the door but thought perhaps it was a neighbor from the distant village. They walked slowly to the door, even as another knocked resounded. It made them jump at its insistence.

“Who is there?” they called and as before there was no reply.

“It’s her,” the younger sister said placing her hand atop the others. “Don’t open it.”

The sunlight of the morning through a nearby window warmed their faces.

“Look out the window first.”

Understanding her sister’s concerns, the older girl did look out the window and much to her surprise found nobody standing at the door.

“Whoever it was, they are gone,” she said.

“What?” exclaimed the youngest and out of curiosity she threw the door open.

Her sister was right, there was no one there. In fact there were not even footprints leading to their door, but on the stoop there was a covered basket with a note attached to it.

The girls stepped out into the morning, looking left and right and confirming no footprints in sight anywhere. Surprised and curious they drew the basket into the house and placed it on the table. The youngest took the note.

“What does it say?” asked her sister looking over her shoulder to read with her.

“When I came to call and was in need you cared for me with the best and all of what you had. In my need and haste I took these things from you. I now return them as they were but changed in ways I trust will give you comfort.”

The girls gazed into the basket to find the cup and bowl their father had given to their mother as a wedding gift. The note said,

“This is a cup of never ending drink, never will you thirst. And this bowl is now a bowl of plenty, never will you hunger.”

But the book their mother had read to them was not inside the basket. Instead the sisters found a book of fine leather with beautiful gold leaf pages and a note that read,

“I could not save your book for I read it every night until the pages disappeared. I send you this book of the same stories and many more to warm your nights and make light your hearts.”

The note was simply signed “A Quiet Stranger.”

And as the stories say "They Lived Happily Ever After."

May this Holiday bring you the comfort of your labors and the knowledge that you will always find what you need, when you most need it. May your angels be abundant.
Merry Christmas!

Re-storying: Changing the course of your future through the story you tell about yourself.

Upon being sick recently, a dear friend made the suggestion to re-story my health. In other words, to tell myself I am healthy and whole. She was right of course, but re-storying is more than just positive thinking. It requires an in-depth look at the story we are telling, an understanding of what that story means, and enough imagination to change the course of that story toward a new ending. And, you must believe it will work.

A basic understanding of story structure, particularly of the hero’s journey tale is important too.

Story Structure

Story structure looks a lot like a roller coaster ride with a very gradual rise to the top and a steep quick run down the other side. Some stories will have many such rises and falls, each one getting smaller in size until a final episode wraps up the whole thing. But most stories can be looked at as one hill. The most level part at the beginning introduces setting, time, characters and sometimes a problem, although the depth of the problem unfolds gradually in the rise. More details become evident as we climb that hill, we receive a plot and foreshadowing of the climax.

When we hit the top of that hill, we pretty much know everyone and everything except a resolution. We now look over the top of the hill and see the steep drop before us and realize the full scope of the journey we have taken and the danger we face. It is here at the top that characters have their ah hah moment, the climax. Coming quickly down the other side of this hill we find answers, say a few hail Mary’s, hope for the best, and resolve the problem to come to an end that makes sense and is satisfying.

It is at the climax or hilltop that re-storying takes place at its fullest. By that I mean, we sometimes realize part way up that we need to do something and we may unknowingly put in to motion some change but until we have the journey behind us and all the information in it, we cannot effect that change. Using my illness as an example may be helpful. (You can insert almost any event that troubles your heart or physical health.)

Sample Story

I began to feel sick, the symptoms included a sore throat and lethargy. But was I sick? I couldn’t know. A sore throat might have been from the artificial heat in the car or my family’s homes. The lethargy could have been too much fun and turkey and not enough sleep. I was mindful but did not have enough information.

Let’s say I am a character in this story of my life. I am now standing at the base of that hill and beginning to climb the journey of the holiday weekend. As I move up the hill, the sore throat becomes post nasal, add to that sneezing and a runny nose. Now, we know the characters that have joined me. This is not a normal journey, something is wrong, a problem unfolds.

My story is about a once healthy happy person traveling to see family only to find she is sick. But we don’t know what awaits at the top of hill, we don’t know what the end of the story will be. Yet, it is human nature to start making guesses. I know that I have asthma and I work. So it is a natural conclusion that I will find an asthma attack and loss of work waiting on the other side of the hill. I get to the top and whoa, the drop is scarey.

Here at the top, I meet one last character in the story. A hero’s journey story always includes a mentor and in this case, the mentor is the friend who reminded me to re-story. She is the wise woman.

So what does it mean to re-story this story?

As previously mentioned, the conclusion is one of misery, asthma and lost work, therefore lost pay. Pretty dismal and not within my control. What if the story were to end differently? What are the options for this tale? I could die. I could make lots of other people miserable too. I could languish slowly. I could be miserable but get better. I could find a miracle cure. I could just keep moving toward the light and everything would be just fine, maybe a slight loss of pay but nothing too serious. See? Now there are many endings and many choices. This is empowering.

So story is not just the fairy tale or folk tale we tell ourselves or our children. Story is the everyday life we live. When that story isn’t taking the direction we hope for, the one that makes us happy and whole, we can re-story it. Will this solve all our problems to our satisfaction? Important to know that it will not, especially because we cannot control the behaviors of others. We are empowered only in our own choices. But the empowerment to change the course of our lives is there if we choose to accept it. Re-storying is a way to take back your future.

Anatomy of the Scary Story

Scary stories are about more than just scaring the listener, and should never be about scarring the listener. When a good storyteller takes the audience on a journey through story, it is always with the audience’s best interest in mind, serving story second and the teller last. Telling scary stories is not about the storyteller’s ego boost. A good storyteller also respects religious beliefs when telling a scary story.

There are many kinds of "scary" story. The simplest type, usually preferred by young listeners, is the jump tale.
In this type of scary story, the storyteller brings the listener into his or her confidence, slowly unwrapping the tale until the end of the story when the teller produces the jump. This is done in several ways, sometimes simultaneously. The teller might change from a soft voice to a SHOUT! Proximity changes from having space between teller and listener to almost being on top of the audience. Body movement might actually have the effect of throwing the story at the listener. These jump tales often have elements of fooling the listener into believing the story is really scary or creepy, but with a comical twist at the end. Both the comical twist and the jump produce laughter breaking the stress of the tale.
Purpose: Jump tales show us that our fears are unfounded and allow us to laugh at our foolishness.

There are the saga or myth scary tales that have elements of the macabre or strange, sometimes involving monsters. These stories usually have fictitious, larger than life characters that experience the fright on our behalf and overcome it, Beowulf is one example.
Purpose: This story happens to someone else from a safe distance. The hero must win to show the listener that evil can be overcome.

Urban Legends are highly believable stories because they are told as if they happened to the storyteller or someone the teller knows. Best when told as a local event, we want to trust the teller to tell us the truth, while at the same time we are skeptical. We may or may not be told whether the tale is true, we must decide for ourselves.
Purpose: fun and thrilling while creating a need for logical thinking.

Ghost story: These stories must have ghosts in them. Most ghosts have a reason for haunting, seldom are they actually able to or wanting to harm an individual. Ghosts are present to solve a problem, finish an incomplete task, warn or help the character. Now and then, the fear the character has for the ghost is their demise but seldom is it the ghost that harms. Occasionally there may be a haunting without a ghost, such as an enchanted object.
Purpose: gives a glimpse at the beyond, lends hope, teaches a lesson, make us think.

There are trickster scary stories too. Sometimes there are no ghosts or creatures in these stories but peers who play tricks by creating rumors of hauntings.
Purpose: teaches a lesson

Some scary stories will be decidedly more frightening than others and an experienced storyteller will be able to gauge how far to push the envelope with a particular audience. Three things that make these tales work are believability, environment which includes venue, teller’s presence and voice, and safety in numbers. When we listen to a scary story we are not alone, there is always at least one other person there with us, the storyteller. A good storyteller always keeps us safe. They may dare us to walk the edge and face the fear, but they always bring us safely home.

Finally, there are key elements that make listening to scary stories different from watching a horror movie. They are imagination and experience. A listener can only be as scared as they can imagine and will only understand the fear that they have experienced in reality. I am one storyteller that usually scares myself more than my listeners when I tell scary stories, I have a wild imagination.

So this Halloween, I hope you will cuddle up with a trusted friend and listen to a scary story, tales that make us think, give us chills, and almost always allow us to laugh at ourselves.

My Appearance Schedule

Public Appearances Schedule

I do a lot of work in schools and for private functions but have a flurry of public appearances coming up to let you know about. This seemed like the best way to post it right now:

October 3: "The Magic Fish Pond" Repertory Theatre, Jonesborough TN, 11:30am. A workshop about theuse of story in the aftermath of disaster and trauma, sponsored by the National Storytelling Network and the Healing Story Alliance. Tickets $5(I will spend a few days traveling north and visiting friends in Virginia, available for programs along the way.)

October 9: “Ghost Stories” The United Methodist Church, Bailey and Minnesota Streets, Buffalo NY. An evening of ghost stories, book signing, and book raffle. Sponsored by Spin-a- Storytellers. No fee.

October 11: Benefit for the Golden Hill Lighthouse, Golden Hill State Park, New York State. All day. Book signing and sales.

October 17: Fredonia Opera House, Adult Storytelling Cabaret, Fredonia New York. 7:30pm.Featured teller Michael Parent. I am one of the tellers opening the show. Tickets required.

October 24: Chautauqua Bookstore, Chautauqua Institution, 11:30-1pmWalden Books, Chautauqua Mall, 2-3:30pmDaughters of the American Revolution, 7:30pm NOT open to the public.

October 30: Teaching Conference, Oneonta NY. Available for registered teachers and staff only. Storytelling workshops.

November 6: Starlight Studio, Delaware Ave. Buffalo NY. 7-9pm Book signing.

November 7: benefit for the Pajama Program of Western New York, Galleria Mall. Book signing.

November 9: Heim Middle School, Becoming an Ambassador for Change, NOT open to the public.Collins Library, North Collins NY. 6pm. Wild and Wooley Tales

November 10: St. Bonaventure, The Value of Listening, NOT open to the public.

November 14: Barnes and Nobles Books, Main and transit, Clarence NY. 6pmLegends, Lore and Secrets of Western New York, reading and book signing

November 21: Tellebration, United Universalist Church, 7pm, EMCEE

November 28: 12-2pm Buffalo and Erie County Historical Society. Booksigning

December 5: Barnes and Nobles Books, McKinley Mall, Hamburg NY 6 pm Legends, Lore and Secrets of Western New York, reading and book signingThat’s it right now but will update as the schedule changes.

Telling Stories with the Elders

I have done storytelling with many different audiences over the years and each is a unique experience. One technique I have found useful, especially as a story starters and also to stimulate memory, is the use of artifacts such as photos and other personal items from jewelry to broken bits of teacups. I have brought things of my own to use and I have also asked participants to bring their own.
Recently, when visiting one of my favorite senior living facilities, I was pleased by the results, but it went deeper than that. It was such a moving experience that I could not do any other work that day, I needed to sort out these thoughts. I’d like to share with you what happened and whether you are a storyteller, friend or relative of someone in a residential facility or even around the dinner table (the holidays are approaching) you can use this idea to get people talking.

I arranged the seating in a circle rather than typical concert style so everyone would feel like part of the whole. Residents were asked to bring things but only two people actually did, and that’s okay. I was prepared to tell my own life stories.
When the residents were situated and ready, I started by explaining why I was there and what we’d be doing. I began by showing them some of the things I brought with me. I had a rock from the Burren in Ireland where I lived alone for three weeks, I had a broken bracelet that my parents brought back for my sister from their honeymoon (Dad was my 5th Birthday present and I got a purse.) My sister died a few months later and I still have the bracelet. I also brought a little jade cat that reminds me of our first kitty Lucki, a small kaleidoscope that reminds me of my friends, and a shell necklace that belonged to my maternal grandmother. There are full stories attached to all these items and I explained to the elders that I collect many things and keep them as reminders and that when disaster strikes and people go through the rubble to find these things, they are not just holding onto material items but looking for the memories that go with them.
I passed the objects around and could see that for some of the participants it was very significant, this was evident in the great care they gave each item as they held it. I told condensed versions of the stories because the goal was to hear them, not me. But they needed a few examples.
I always use a microphone because so many are hard of hearing and passed it around for them to use but some felt uncomfortable using it so I didn’t press the issue.
There were some elders who did not want to speak loud enough to be heard, they were shy or felt their stories had no merit. In which case, I listened to what they said and repeated it for the others on their behalf. That was acceptable to all.
It is very typical when listening to someone tell a story, especially a personal one, to have one story remind you of another. This readily happened with this particular group. Someone would mention something and the whole group would come to life with similar stories. If we got to a quiet spot where nobody had anything to say, I would tell a story and/or ask a question. For example I said "My grandfather made cotton candy" and someone shouted "My father used to make candy" etc.
One woman in particular has Alzheimer’s and she would blurt out during someone else’s story something about herself as it came to mind. I let her do that and acknowledged it because a moment later, she might not recall that memory. The other elders, knowing her situation were very supportive. She said "I made hats. I worked at Chic’s." I asked where it was and she didn’t know. The other elders did and they told me and she suddenly recalled another fact, "I repaired holes in veils." These little snippets of memory were repeated by her several times but the details continued to grow until by the time we were finished I know she had worked in a hat shop repairing veils. The shop was named Chic Mae’s [sic] and may have been located in the Broadway District of Buffalo. Her father owned a candy store, possibly named Honey Bunchies, and he was known for some kind of caramel filled suckers.
Another woman has always told me that she worked at a women’s shop called Slotkins in downtown Buffalo. Knowing this I asked her to share her story. She is somewhat senile and never remembers that she told me the story before, but I always listen as if it the first time I heard it. She smiled but said "Oh nobody wants to hear that. Why do you want to hear it?" I told her that I loved the story and she took the microphone. (I let them stay in their seats since most have trouble moving around.)
When she was finished I learned something new about her story. As I had heard it before, she worked at Slotkins and ran it for years. She had 15 fashion shows each year. The new part I learned was that she inherited the store and was trained in fashion at a design school her parents sent her too. That she also knew all the markets in New York City. So, she was a buyer too.

BTW, she wasn’t going to share beyond the fact that she worked at the store but I asked her to share about the fashion shows which she had told me about before, and she then went even further. We need to ask our elders to tell these stories even if we think we’ve already heard them. She smiled the whole time.
I had regulars and new folks. One woman who was new wouldn’t let go of my hand afterward and must have hugged and thanked me four times before she was finally pulled off to go have her lunch.
We shared stories about jobs, the way the city used to be, the games we played as kids (they loved when I demonstrated my hopscotch technique), penny candies, family and so on and so on. They all voted yes to doing this again and said how much they love when I come visit. But the best experience for me was yet to come.

As I was wheeling my sound system down the hall I passed a man in a scooter. I smiled and said hello.

He smiled back but when I went to pass him he said "Well, wait a minute. Don’t go so fast." I stopped and he asked if I worked there.

I said "No, I am a storyteller and just did some work with the other residents."

His face lit up, a mischievous twinkle in his eye and he asked "So, you’re a storyteller. What kind of stories?"
My usual spiel is folk tales, fairy tales, personal stories, ghost stories, original tales and for all ages, but I only got to say fairy tales when he interrupted.
"You mean to tell me that grown people and those who aren’t (sign of crazy), are willing listen to fairy tales?"
"Yep," I said. "They never were for kids ya know."
"Well I don’t think you could tell me one of those."
"I was here today to get all of you to tell your stories."
"Well, I don’ think I would do that. I don’t have any stories."
"Can I ask you a question?"
He said "Sure."
"Were you ever in the military?"
"Was I in the military, well Missy let me show you...hold on."
He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his billfold, from that he took a card and handed it to me.
"Nobody believes unless I show them that."
It was his military ID card encased in plastic to keep it safe.
"Canadian Infantry?" I read.
"Where is it from?" he asked. "Issued?"
"Overseas!" I said. You were overseas, where?"
"Glasgow."
By the time we were done talking I found out that he was in the Canadian military stationed in Glasgow, was born in Canada but moved here with his wife. She died here of cancer. They moved here at the request of her sister so they could be near each other and he gave up his Canadian citizenship.
"I can’t go back," he said. "Well, maybe they’ll let me now, but I gave it up for my wife."
"You loved her so much you gave up your citizenship for her?"
He got a great big smile on his face.
"I loved her more than anything in the world."
He had no story to tell?

Now I hope you can see why I was not able to focus on anything else that day. My brain was just swimming with all the stories and how effective this can be.
If you have elders in your families, I hope you will try this during the holidays. Get the whole family together with the children too, sit at the feet of your elders and listen to their lives. You will be so glad you did.

Storytelling with Special Needs Audiences: the challenges and belssings

Of course working with any population we choose to label, such Developmentally Disabled, at-risk, even children or adults, means recognizing that within that audience we have individuals with varying needs and capabilities. The younger the audience or more involved their personal challenges might be, the more specialized our focus becomes and the more flexible we need to be as presenters.
I have had the great privilege of working with many different types of audiences from young to old, from highly intelligent to severely disabled mentally, emotionally and physically. None can be addressed fully in one article or together as each has its merits and setbacks. Today, I worked with children who ranged from severely to moderately developmentally disabled.
These children and youth came in wheelchairs, asleep, alert, walking, without eye contact, quiet, loud, smiling, blank-faced. My challenge was to deliver my stories in such a way that I could engage as many as possible without allowing my ego to get in the way. What I mean by that is that the response of the audience is not the same as a "typical" audience. Some children slept through the entire program, others made loud noises, some laughed, some continued to be blank-faced, some clapped, some seemingly did not know anything special was happening, some caregivers participated and brought their charges along for the ride, some sat and wondered what to do, and none of it had anything to do with my stories or my ability as a storyteller.
It takes years of experience to get to a place in performance where you know that you are delivering quality in the right way without feeling let down on a personal level by audience response and it takes some knowledge of special needs groups to really understand that what you do counts even if there is no immediate response. The energy a storyteller must put into programs with very young children and audiences made up of special needs groups, especially those who are severely disabled, is ten times what we put out during an "average" presentation. I sometimes refer to this kind of energy telling as "in your face" storytelling.
While it sounds negative, I mean it mostly as a style of storytelling that requires more movement and up close presence than I usually put out. I am a storyteller who does active stories but usually stands fairly mid-stage and in front of my audience. I do movements and character voices for some stories but I do not move around a lot. When working with the audience today, I moved back and forth across the "stage" front (really on the floor in front of the stage) and up and down an aisle while trying to engage eye contact on a one-to-one basis with as many children as possible, even to the point of bending over to find eyes that were viewing the floor. In addition, my actions were exaggerated x3 and some verbal subtleties in stories were left out in favor of more engaging facial expressions and body language.
While ignoring sudden uncontrolled outbursts by individual children and being aware that some children exhibited concern over loud noise, I was aware that many seemed to continue to sleep, even when I used my drum in one story. Still I incorporated children in the stories as characters and taught them the responses and hand movements for some stories, expecting them to do what they could with help and encouragement from their caregivers. When the stories were finished, the children were taken to crafts tables for activities relating to the stories. This further reinforced the stories. I took this time to walk around the room and speak a moment with each child, even ones who did not seem to know I was there and after getting their names from either the child or caregiver, made sure I used their names when speaking to them.
Observations from this and many other programs like it:
* We cannot be so oblivious to the needs of the audience that we plod through our work in whatever fashion we are accustomed to. We must enter the story space with an awareness of audience need and a flexibility to meet that need.
* I know from experience, and faith in what I do, that even a sleeping child hears what we say in the deepest place where they reside. (Sometimes it is best not to wake them but to let them be in that peaceful place.)
* I know that honoring them and their existence is a blessing they deserve and using their names reinforces the fact that their lives mean something.
* And I am exhausted but so happy and honored to have these opportunities.
Take care of yourself as a storyteller or caregiver, replenish your energy so you can continue this work of making magic and dreams, affirming and witnessing the human spirit.

Just One Story for Choice Making

The Grain of Rice
Grain of Rice

Copyright/Czarnota 2008

No portion of this story may be recorded or copied without permission from the author. This story is in the public domain but this version is protected.

There was a king who had four daughters, each of whom he knew and loved equally. In his aging years he knew one must take the throne as his replacement, but didn’t know which one to choose. So, he devised a test. The king gave each daughter a single grain of rice.

“Each of you must decide what to do with your rice. I’m going away and when I return I will choose who will be queen.”

The first daughter looked at the rice in her hand and said, “My father is a great king and so this rice is most precious.” She wrapped it in golden thread and placing it on an altar prayed over it each day for her father’s safe return.

The second daughter thought this is special rice from my most special father. She hid hers in a plain box under the bed so that robbers would not steal it.

The third daughter said “My father is a great king and I can have rice anytime I want.” She threw hers in the trash bin.

The fourth held her rice for a year and a day and contemplated what to do with it.

Time passed, perhaps two years and more. The daughters were looking out the window one day and saw a man traveling toward the palace; it was their venerable father. They took him in, washed his feet, dressed him in clean robes, and fed him before he asked; “Now daughters, I am most curious to know what you did with your rice.”

The first brought the gold wrapped grain to him. “I treated it with great respect and prayed for your safe return.”

The king kissed his first daughter’s cheek. “I am proud of you my daughter.”

The second brought a dusty box from under her bed. “I kept it safe from robbers, Father.”

“I am proud of you,” he said kissing his second daughter’s cheek.

The third daughter had a problem didn’t she? She had thrown hers away, but let’s face it, one grain of rice looks like any other. She went to the kitchen and got another grain. “Look father, here is mine.”

The king did not become king for lack of wisdom and he knew his daughters well. “I expected as much,” he said with a knowing smile. She was a clever one to be sure. “And I am proud of you.”

His fourth daughter stood silent by the window as each of her sisters presented their rice.

“And my fourth one, where is your rice?”

“My father,” she said sadly. “I no longer have my rice.”

The old king walked to her side and looked out the window.

“I planted it Father for the people were hungry.”

Before the old king’s eyes were fields of rice from the single grain he had given his daughter.

“I am most proud of you,” he said placing a crown upon her head. “For a good queen knows that she must care for others.”

Now it is not so much that the fourth became queen that makes this story important when we think about choices. Each daughter did what she felt was the right thing, each was presented with the same opportunity, and each was successful in some way. No choice made by the princesses was wrong, because success has many definitions. But only one daughter succeeded at the proposed goal of becoming queen.
May you do with your grain of rice that which will bring you success.

One Writer's Process for One Writing Project

Authors will approach their projects differently, but I would like to share my own. It will also vary depending on what is being written. The process I am writing about here is for the historical work I am completing at this time: "The Spirits and Secrets of Western New York." This book is a combination of history, myth, legends and lore of the region.

I was given a choice about what I’d like to write by the publisher. So the first step was to determine what that would be. I wanted to write something other than the Western New York book but it seemed to me that what I had looked into was already somewhat saturated. I’m not saying what that was because I would like to write a children’s book on it eventually. That has not been done yet. Anyway, I considered Western New York. The next step was to decide if I had enough stories to fill the book and how to handle such a wide region.

Step 1. Decide what you want to write about and research what has been done already.
Results: This region has been written about extensively but usually in specific themes. My book has a variety of stories from history to lore spanning the entire history of this region. I did not find other books that did that. There are history books from particular eras and events, ghost stories, biographies, but nothing quite like my book.

Step 2: Figure out what is available for the size book you want to write. Submit.
Children’s books are generally shorter, this book had to have 30,000 to 40,000 words or about 128 pages.
Process and results: I took stories I already knew something about and added them to other tidbits I found in my research. I then created a tentative table of contents with tentative chapter titles and listed specific story titles under those. I submitted this to the publisher and they gave me a contract. I also needed to give them a title. This is a working title; they are always subject to change by the publisher. I chose something that expressed the content and feel for this book. I also use titles to help me stay focused on my goal. *You wander less when you have an objective.

Step 3: Begin writing. Authors approach this in different ways. I am a chronological writer, first things first for me. So I began at the beginning by writing a very short introduction. I will be rewriting this introduction but like the title it served as my mission statement and kept me focused.
Results: write, don’t edit. Get the story on paper (or computer as the case might be). I wrote as much as I could on each particular story and simultaneously researched the missing bits. I took tons of handwritten notes and copies, all filed in individual folders per topic. If other story ideas popped into my head, I made a list. After finishing the stories I knew I wanted to include, I went back and used this list to fill in. Some stories had to be left out because of length. That is a difficult choice to make, but it also means material for another book.

Step 4: research and fill in. I did this as I went along but after each chapter was finished I went back and reviewed the details (not editing yet), just correcting dates, names, numbers and the like for historical accuracy. I also gave copies of these early chapters to readers, friends and relatives I trust to give me their opinions. Was it interesting? Did they learn something new? Did my writing make sense? And my significant other is always the one I ask to make notes in the margins. (Work in double space for this reason.)

Step 5: I had to submit images for this book before the text so I needed to know early what I was going to include. I wrote all my text first. Once I was satisfied that most of the stories were in place, I began looking for images. At the same time, I was adding new stories and looking for images to include with those and beginning an early edit of the first chapters. When the images were all gathered (two weeks ahead of scheduled in this case) I sent them in with a rough draft of the manuscript so the publisher could begin a layout. They had not specifically asked for that but Western New York is celebrating an anniversary and I would like to piggyback on that for marketing, time is of the essence.

Step 6: Last edits and marketing: While I finished writing stories, Thomas continued to review previous chapters. As he finished those, I went back and made changes accordingly, not always taking his advice but more often that not doing so. I also had to supply the publisher with a marketing plan so I did hours of research for local bookstores, historical societies, museums and events, trying to give them as many contact names and addresses as possible. (All this going on, by the way, at the same time I am finishing stories.)
Thomas finished reviewing earlier chapters, and after I sent all the marketing information to the publisher, I went back to do my final edit from the beginning. I do this final edit in red pen and transfer that to my computer pages by typing. This final process is tedious and required many breaks. I’d say I did three or four pages, then took a game break, or walked, or gardened, or cleaned house, something completely different.

Step 7: Submit final draft. When the manuscript is done, do a final spell and grammar check, check your formatting so it follows publisher guidelines, complete introductions and acknowledgments, bibliographies or whatever else needs to be done, and send.
I do not plan a bibliography because I did most of my research online, however the publisher may ask for one. That would be another project. Also, in the case of this publisher, I must send the manuscript electronically. Follow up to make sure it arrived safely.

Step 8: Wait. The publisher will have editors review the manuscript and I will get additional edit notes from them. That will be crunch time. It has to be completed without ten days of their sending them to me, at least for this publisher. I will move on to my next project, editing a book I’ve been writing for four years on using story with at-risk youth. (I plan to self-publish this one as a training manual.)

Step 9: If my editing is accepted, I will wait to be notified that the book is ready, they will probably send a cover design for me to sign off on and that’s it.
Step 10: Market. Even though the publisher will do a lot of this, the author has to talk up their book too.

I hope this helps some of you budding authors to get an insight look at a process and inspire some of you would be authors to get started. You just have to get it in writing! All those thoughts go on paper and you should not worry about whether they sound good, get them down. All you experienced writers, I welcome your additions to this discussion and hopefully you too will help get people going.