How To Write a Book

grapes-of-wrath-novelFollowing, a quote from Steinbeck; from his Grapes of Wrath Journals.

“This must be a good book. It simply must. I haven’t any choice. It must be far and away the best thing I have ever attempted — slow but sure, piling detail on detail until a picture and an experience emerge. Until the whole throbbing thing emerges. And I can do it. I feel very strong to do it.”

And that, people, is how to write a book.

M L S Baisch

Lost Moments Come Out to Play

My mother would have been 98 today; she died at 83. Seems like yesterday. My newest piece for the Iowa Writing Workshop is biographic fiction–there’s some truth to it, but it is not true: much is imaginary. However, I kept journals and did refer to them. It would be impossible to remember some of the things that happened: they were too bizarre. Memory prefers to go where it is comfortable.

As my mother might want to be remembered.

–  As my mother might want to be remembered –

          Lost Moments Come Out to Play

If the day had gone according to plan, it would have disappeared under the weight of days like all others. But it didn’t.

I called to say happy birthday. My mother had been living with me until she requested the ultimate birthday present: to spend her last years living near her brothers. It was her twin brother Clarence she was especially missing.

So I arranged for her to move into a retirement community in her old home-town: her name was on a short list, though it had not yet come to the top. She wouldn’t be home to celebrate her 80th birthday with her twin.

But there was a niece willing to take her in.

“I’d love to have Grandma live with me,” Jewel had said. “It will be loads of fun.”

“She’ll wear me out,” my mother had told me as she packed her suitcase for the trip.

“Do you think I should wear shoes?” Mother asked, bringing me back to the present.

Understanding her to mean dress shoes, I replied, “Just don’t trip. Wear sensible heels.”

“Oh,” she said. “Do you really think so?”

If I had been listening to the subtext of the conversation, it was there to be heard. My mother was shouting it out so clearly. “Oh, sanity, which I trust with my life, where are you going?”

She appeared at the door dressed for dinner wearing no shoes.


Her face has softened into lines and shadows. Occasionally there is a smile, impish; like it must have been as a small girl. Impressions distort it as thoughts flick through her mind. Furniture cannot be trusted to stay put. Two and too have come to have the same meaning. People fade completely away to be replaced by ghosts.

“Do we have a dog?” my mother wants to know.

And there is pain. Mercifully, the pain has no reference; it is just there, somewhere.

“How are you today, Mrs. Morris?” the nurse has arrived, swishing cheer in the door.

“Good,” Mother says.

“Wonderful!” The nurse is busy straightening blankets, strategizing for the busy part of a hospital day, while my mother continues to watch the snow falling where it piles up on the flat roof outside her window.

“See the sheep.”

“What?” The nurse stops plumping pillows. “Where?”

My mother lifts a thin arm from under the blanket to point.

“Oh, I see,” the nurse says. “Those aren’t sheep. That’s just snow drifting into corners.”


“Do you know where you are, Mrs. Morris?”

My mother turns her attention to her bedclothes, fumbles with them until she finds what she is looking for and then reads from the imprint stamped onto the sheet. “Mercy Hospital, Great Falls, Montana.”

“Oh, mercy,” Uncle Clarence mumbles. To me. We sit waiting in the corner. It has been a long night.

“Go home,” I tell him. “You need some sleep. I’ll call you.”

“I suppose,” he says. I had learned to listen on two levels. He also said, “I can’t stand watching Clara lose her mind.”

Mom must have understood the nuance too, because she answered him, “People who listen to bird songs listen before six a.m. After that they’re too noisy.”

That made perfect sense.


My mother put her French fries inside her fish sandwich and ate a whole cup of gravy with a spoon in the parking lot at Denney’s. Then she reached inside her purse, took out her lipstick, and drew bright red over her eyebrows. Everything was wrong today—the fish was too sour, the fries were too sweet. But her new perm did look nice; her hair snow-white and lovely.

“I want to go camping,” she says. “I think I’m good for one more.”

She was remembering. We had set up camp in a downpour, snuggled in sleeping bags while water ran through the tent under our lawn chairs. How we laughed!

“This is my last camping trip, you know?” Mother had observed.

“Of course it isn’t,” I had replied, not understanding the future. “We’ll still be camping as long as we can get in the car and go.”

“I need to get my things together,” Mom says now, opening the car door. She is moving out. Again. “I’m too old to live at home.”

My answer is to help her pack her suitcase. We set up camp in the dark.


The lake stretches out flat, partitioned into slabs of colors reflecting the sky and the land in the split second before dawn. She will wake up wet; I smell urine from where I sit outside the RV drinking coffee.

“It isn’t right that they keep all those people in rooms with nothing to do,” she said last night. My mother had had a lot to say, sitting here by the fire.

“You’re here now,” I reassured her. “We’re together.”

“I threw a salad at her. That’s why she stole my socks. You really need to talk to Winifred.”

I have lived in my grandmother’s skin for several years now. I have come to know my mother’s mother in an intimate way, through my own mother’s eyes. It was always her sister Winifred she believed I preferred.

“I’ll speak to her.”

That had made my mother happy.

We sat together, three generations of women, watching the moon rise over rocks along the shore, sticky with spider webs, sticky with memories. The living and the dead.

Now, in the early morning, I cherish memories as close as yesterday. I hear my mother stirring. She isn’t speaking yet, but I hear her saying, “When time begins to crush days into days, the hours slip away to sleep. Perhaps forever. I’m wandering through old gardens, down old streets. Once again a child because, before time finally stops, lost moments come out to play.”

M L S Baisch © 2015

Photo collage: as my mother might want to be remembered. © 2015 M L S Baisch

What about this thing called language?

Tom Phillips Letters
               – Tom Phillips  –  Letters –
What about this thing called language? Specifically, what about this thing called a National language? Did you know that 41 percent of U.S. residents–some 25.6 million people–have difficulty speaking English?
Should that be a concern? I think so. Before the mid-60’s, in this country, there was no legal immigration–not to be mean, but to give time for the immigrants already in the country to assimilate. A country is a culture, and culture means, among all else, a common language. That’s how we understand each other. Without understanding, very little can be accomplished. Being able to talk to one another, to communicate, to be heard, is the very first requirement of a civilization.
The graphic is Tom Phillips’ LETTERS. Tom Phillips is the person who came to my mind as a perfect example of what, exactly, language means to a culture. He is “an artist whose work is fueled by several persistent preoccupations, expressed through an even larger number of formats. These include painting (both figurative and abstract), opera (composer, librettist, set designer), concrete poetry and ornamental forms of writing, sculpture and site-specific designs (mosaic, tapestry, wire frame objects). He has also taken on several para-artistic roles – critic, curator, committee chairman for the Royal Academy, translator – all of which he has folded back into his art.” The quote is from his webpage at:
Without a common language there can be no exalted expression of the human experience. And it it just that expression that is required in order to achieve human potential. Does that mean that a global language, the result of a global mixing pot, is what’s coming? And, if so, will the human race survive?

Not a Game of Hide-and-Seek


This is the first assignment: Iowa Writing Workshop



Madelaine held the letter as she watched the door swing shut.  The engine was chu-chu-chu-ing in a repetitive beat, vibrating even the envelope between her fingers. Garish reflections pulsed across the window shield keeping time to neon signs and immobilizing her mind until she heard the psssss of the air brakes releasing, and felt the bus move away from the depot.

The letter was a complication. It was serendipitous that Madelaine had noticed it, for there had never been mail delivered for her. Only junk mail and, occasionally, something for Edward Carnes or current resident. After all this time with nothing coming for her, she had not troubled to either forward mail or to stop delivery.

After all, the nondescript apartment was only a stop-over, never any place she intended to stay. Her purpose had been to become lost, and Madelaine had successfully been lost for exactly three years, four months, and ten days. She asked herself if she stayed so long from a resolve not to be found, or was it simply to delay the inevitable conclusion. In the end she had counted the days down, measuring her time in dollars and cents.

To be embarrassingly frank, there was no money for rent. A Walmart greeter was never intended to support a life; rather to have something to do, away from a dismal life. There had been a gradual diminution of savings until there was only money for a one-way bus ticket to Newport with enough left over for an all-you-can-eat shrimp dinner at Sizzler: not much more.

She would eat her shrimp as she watched the Pacific Ocean disappear into darkness. Of course, Madelaine wasn’t on a bus, traversing three states, in order to watch the ocean dissolve into night while she ate shrimp. It had been a long time—three years, four months, and ten days—but if Robert was still fishing out of Newport, he would be at the Sizzler at eight o’clock on any Friday night of the world.

Madelaine didn’t look anything like the Madelaine Robert would remember. Leaving Robert had not been a game of hide-and-seek.  She had re-invented herself, intending never to be discovered. An overweight, mousy, blowsy brunette sitting in a corner eating shrimp would not attract his attention.

Watching him, unobserved, would corroborate her decision: or not. She must be sure, as there could be no do-overs. Madelaine had imagined herself disappearing under unforgiving water, being swept away; imagined it over and over again and was no longer terrified. To drown was her expectation. She didn’t expect that the slick wash of deceit could be expurgated, because she deep-down knew Robert. Still, Madelaine wanted to believe in miracles.

The letter was a complication. Madelaine found herself feeling remorseful–not for Robert, not for herself, and it was too late to be sorry for Barbara—only for Emily. She would sit in the corner booth and spy on Robert. If he was still in Newport he would be there—he was a predictable man. Then she would read Emily’s letter and decide if there was, perhaps, could possibly be, a different inevitability.

M L Spaulding Baisch © 2015