Turn A Phrase

Turn A Phrase
The Writers Garret is proud to announce a new, regular feature for our site. Each new post will present a selected writer with connections to the North Texas area and the Writers Garret.
Here, at Turn A Phrase, we post on the 2nd and 4th Fridays of the month. Each post will highlight the work of a author in the North Texas Area, including special interviews.
We are grateful to live and work in a region full of energy, talent, and artistic collaboration, and proud to be a part of that community.

Prose and Poetry

There’s never a shortage on Prose and Poetry writers. Check out all of our authors here. We will post new segments every 2nd Friday of the month.

Interviews

Check out our exclusive interviews with artist from the Dallas-Fort Worth Metropolitan area. We will post a new segment every 4th Friday.

About Us

We are a 501(c)(3) Literary Arts Center based in Dallas offering local, regional, and national programs.

Contact Us

General Information: [email protected]

Phone: 214-828-1715

Address: 1250 Majesty Drive, Dallas, Texas, 75247

Margaret Allyson

Margaret Allyson enjoyed a long career in publishing and is now happy to sleep late, work in the garden, faff around with textiles, play with food, and generally have a fine old time. She’s written books (nonfiction), songs (some pretty good), poems, and countless magazine articles. Margaret is basically a decent human being, and she’s glad to be here.

In the Court of Henry VIII

The king is fat. His leg is rotten.

Wolsey and Cromwell — last voices of reason —

lie moldering. Still the hunt goes on.

Boleyns whored out their daughters.

Seemed like a good plan at the time;

it’s all played out.

The families scuttle in alcoves

and the king demands another wife.

Trust erodes. Who fawned now falls.

Heads fall as well.

His castles crumble, he eats up praise.

And we are all afraid.

Uncertain, Texas

As soon as his wife

got out of the truck,

he flew all over Lee Ann.

Hummingbird-hot,

like they all are in August,

flickering in and out

of existence.

 

When Lee Ann remembered it later,

that minute shimmered

like when you climb out of the water

 

and everything you see is blurred.

Bill Marvel

Bill Marvel is a lifelong journalist and writer, starting at the Rocky Mountain News in 1961; The National Observer, where he was art critic and senior arts editor from 1969 to 1977; and The Dallas Times Herald and The Dallas Morning News, where he was senior feature writer, until 2008.  His freelance work has appeared in Smithsonian, American Way, American Heritage History & Technology, D magazine and other pubications.  In addition to his work for newspapers and magazines, he has written several books, among them Islands of the Damned, a Marine’s account of the Pacific War co-authored with R.V. Burgin, NAL; and The Rock Island Line, published by Indiana University Press; and Burning Ludlow, a narrative account of the great 1913-14 Colorado coal strike, the bloodiest labor conflict in U.S. History.
If you’ve been to Writers Garret events during the past decade or so and felt like humming a few bars of Santa Claus is Coming to Town, then you know Bill Marvel, Kris Kringle’s younger brother who has a wicked way with words. 

 

I’ve known Bill for a dozen or so years. I first spotted him at The Mayborn Conference, looking every bit The Writer: white hair that hung a bit long, the white beard to match, a little scraggly. A bit Mark Twain, a bit professor, and over all Father Christmas. A little bell went off in my head, telling me to make his acquaintance. I didn’t get to that weekend but a month or so later he came to a Sunday afternoon event at the Garret.  I was enrolled in the CAMP program, working on my certificate as a Professional writer. I was focusing on Creative Non-Fiction (CNF) and I needed a mentor. At the time I was the only student focusing on CNF and the list of mentors the Garret had at the time focused on fiction. So, at that Sunday Writers Block I boldly approached Bill and asked him to mentor me. Looking a bit startled that I would ask such a thing, then asking what being my mentor meant, followed by my lame explanation, Bill said Yes. I was delighted. It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

 

Through a series of events, Beatriz Terrazas and I quickly became Co-Directors of the CAMP program and had to come up with some courses. A workshop to help students compete in The Mayborn was high on my list.

 

The Mayborn Conference for Literary Non-Fiction, which convenes every July, is where I poured my writing energy. Bill, of course, was connected to the conference, so we tested the waters by teaching together Introduction to Creative Non-Fiction, helping students hone their skills to get a manuscript ready for the competition. To our great delight, all of our students were accepted into the conference.  Whoo-hoo!

 

We were a good team, each of us complementing our skills with the other to provide one whole Instructor. We taught the Mayborn Prep class a few more times, keeping our record of every student in our classes qualifying for the competition. Some of our students went on to win publication in Ten Spurs.

 

Bill and I were founding members of what became Salon Quartre. We felt that four members were best for the writing group we envisioned. Drema Berkheimer and Judith Green were included, and when Judith moved, Robin Underdahl took her place. We had the pleasure of reading each other’s books-in-progress. We read Bill’s book Islands of the Damned (Bill wrote R.V. Burgin’s memoir of WWII).

 

I asked Bill to share his thoughts on The Writer’s Garret for this piece. He responded with this:

 

I’ve heard all my life that if you want to learn a subject, teach it. I’m not sure how this might apply to writing, which is not a subject, but a practice. Still, the times I have taught at TWG have certainly made me a better writer. Listening to other writers as they work their way through the same problems — or even different problems from my own — I’ve come to see how we learn writing as musicians learn performance —by listening to others who do it well, or sometimes not so well, and asking, how could it be done better? Artists in any medium learn from other artists. Even painters, those lone wolves of the fine arts, visit one another’s studios to see, not necessarily how it’s done, but that it can be done. By providing this kind of community, almost like a Medieval guild, TWG is serving an ancient need. if it didn’t exist, we writers would have to invent it. 

 

I present to you a paragraph from Bill’s favorite work of his long writing career,  Burning Ludlow, an account of a piece of the history of the American West that is mostly overlooked.

 

There was not much to see, and there was everything to see: the bare framework of bedsprings, the skeleton of a baby carriage. A haze of smoke still hugged the ground, fed by smoldering coal piles and by scraps of flame that sheltered among the collapsed tent floors. Yet there was a strange order to the scene. At regular intervals the big cast-iron Excelsior stoves loomed, their pipes jutting like some eerie memorial over the place where each tent had stood. Oven doors hung open. Coffeepots and kettles, pierced by bullets, awaited breakfast. There were pots of what might have been oatmeal and the blackened, shriveled scraps of what might have been bacon. Broken glass and crockery crunched underfoot. Pails and buckets and big galvanized tubs were scattered everywhere. Monday had been washday

Anyone who can write this paragraph is a writer you need to read. 

Ann Graham

Originally from Kansas, Ann Graham has lived in Texas for nearly forty years. Her MFA in painting and drawing continues to inform her writing practice. She attended the Squaw Valley Community of Writers workshop and has been published by Grey Sparrow JournalDigging Through the FatThe Oddville Press, and the Panther City Review. Her writing prompt book, Ready, Set, Go Write, is available online, and she contributed research to Fort Worth’s Giants of Jazz. She maintains a blog at www.ann-graham.com and can be found on Twitter @AnnGraham7.

On the Road Again

Driving for any length of time, you encounter all shapes, sizes, and colors of signage. Some are large and imposing. Some are small and hand-painted. Some implore you to obey commands or to make a purchase. And, some remind you of the life you had with Elizabeth before you died. 

 

Massage, a large pink and brown sign, hand-painted

Elizabeth gave killer massages after you’d worked, open to close, at your Texaco full-service gas station. She’d unkink your shoulder blades with her sharp elbows. You were never positive whether she eased the stiffness and pain or if you were just glad she’d stopped. 

When you were seventeen, old man Russell took you on in his transmission repair shop. He’d throw you a Jackson at the end of the week if he thought you’d done more than squat. Between that experience and the Okmulgee High School auto mechanic program you were set to earn a living by the time you were twenty. You finally got your own station. The next year, you married Elizabeth.

 

Rest Area, Safe Phone Zone, another sign

You hover above a dark cherry metallic 1998 Malibu, its clear-coat peeling like sunburned skin. There are half a dozen kids inside. Long dark hair streams from the rear passenger window. You try to get the driver’s attention because he’s weaving from lane to lane, and you see there’s a line of big rigs about to enter from the ramp. You’re banging on his windshield to no avail. You’re unsure how your new powers work or even exactly what they are. As soon as you think that, you grab the hair flowing from the rear window and give it a tug. It seems to have worked. She yells at the driver, and he centers the Malibu. After another mile, he exits for the rest area safe phone zone.

 

Dump Station, a small sign posted on a fence

RV folks need to get rid of their gray water as they lumber down the road with their homes on their backs making dump stations necessary. How brave they are to have no roots deep in a place. 

Elizabeth had her hair dyed—she called it a touch-up—every eight weeks at Wak-n-Yak, the beauty salon all the neighbor ladies used. Elizabeth said she needed to dump her grievances as much as she needed her hair done. She made no beans about how much you had come to annoy her and that yakking to her friends and her stylist was inexpensive counseling. You called it gossip. She called it gospel. 

You and Elizabeth lived in a neighborhood with single-family houses, lawns, garages, back yard patios with gas grills, and front porches with swings and gliders. Once you told Elizabeth that you were going to buy the biggest RV on the market so that the two of you could travel the country, side by side. She said you could call a lawyer while you were at it. 

 

Do Not Cross Solid Line, a federal highway sign

The traffic is congested. You’re watching the cars, trucks, and RVs creep alongside the largest casino complex you’ve ever seen. For a few seconds, you float next to a Subaru Outback stopped at a red light. You watch the woman hand pieces of beef jerky, one at a time, to the driver, then she hands him a can of Dr. Pepper. He takes a sip and holds the can for her to replace in the cup holder. They seem to have a system. 

You and Elizabeth rarely rode together. Toward the end, you were rarely together at all. She wasn’t with you the day you missed the yield sign. 

 

Motel California, a sign advertising an inexpensive motel

You and Elizabeth started dating in May 1976, bicentennial, voter registration, Elton John’s bisexuality, and all that. You hooked up at a school dance neither of you wanted to attend. She wore a red, white, and blue maxi. Dresses at that time were either mini or maxi. Her hair, Farrah Fawcett style, draped her tanned shoulders and turned you on. Her date was a football jock who went off with his buddies to guzzle Budweiser while several of you also ditched the dance to smoke pot under the bridge that spanned the Arkansas River. Even though it was close to the high school, the vantage point allowed you to see anyone approaching well before they sniffed out your pot. Long story short, Elizabeth dumped jock-boy and you were a bona-fide item. This sign reminds you how you wore out your Eagles album in the cassette player of your GTO. Up and down 21st, cruising with your gal, some vanilla soft-serve at Jack’s Burger Shack, windows open, and music blaring. 

 

Be Prepared to Stop, a sign in a construction zone

Sure, sailing down the road at ninety miles an hour and these dopes are supposed to be prepared to stop. Your attention is hiked and you hope the drivers are half-aware. Traffic is heavy and some damn idiots are doing ninety and some barely reach sixty in the passing lane. Can’t they read? You guess it’s hard to read a sign while using a cell phone. You wonder how you could interrupt them or if that would make it more dangerous.

 

Flea Market, a bent sign nailed to a big tree

Peach preserves glistened like amber in the morning sunshine; the hand-printed labels faced the shoppers. Elizabeth set out her jams, every Friday, at the Southside Flea Market off 67. It was also marked with a large, homemade sign. You told her she should charge more for all the labor, packaging, and driving involved. She said it wasn’t for the money. It was for the camaraderie. She sold a jar every week to a retired Army General she called Clarence who’d told her, and she told you, that he began every morning with an English muffin, toasted, buttered, and laden with her luscious peaches. Then he winked, she told you, and said he thought about her pretty hair and wide eyes as well.

 

Please Stay Alert, another federal sign 

After weeks of mustering the power to leave Highway 75, the road on which you were killed, you make it over to Bella Vista Avenue. A new blue Honda Accord sits in your driveway. At first you think it must belong to a parishioner from Christ the Servant Lutheran Church, but you see Elizabeth hop into it. You follow her to Kroger and you sit on the cart return until she exits the store with a bundle of multi-colored flowers wrapped in a clear plastic cone.

You follow her for forty miles on the Dallas North Tollway. She weaves in and out of traffic. Not only is it difficult to keep up, but you also find it perplexing that she’s driving assuredly and almost aggressively. You decide to sail higher for a bird’s eye view. At last she pulls up to a valet stand, and you watch her smile at the doorman as she swings her favorite Coach handbag into a boutique hotel on Main Street. She’s wearing a pink, fluttery dress you do not recognize. You float back and forth across the entrance all night. The following morning, she emerges with a sturdy man you think might be Clarence. 

 

Cherry Ice Box Cookies, a billboard

You asked Elizabeth once what the hell were cherry icebox cookies. She said they were soft, chewy, maraschino-cherry-flavored cookies. Why the hell are they called icebox cookies? She said because you were supposed to shape the dough into logs and chill them in the refrigerator, icebox, until the dough was very cold. Ha, you said, mystery solved. She made a batch the next weekend and you thought they were damn good. You told her she should sell some of those at the flea market. She said no, not interested. She asked where did you hear about cherry icebox cookies? You told her they’re advertised on a billboard along I-20 outside Dallas.

 

Yield, one of the most common signs 

You believe the yield sign to be the most important road sign. After all, isn’t all driving an act of yielding? In fact, you’ve come to believe that successful relationships practice mutual yielding. In fact you now believe that if you’d yielded to your wife once in a while, or if you’d both done a little yielding, you might still be alive. Who doesn’t yield to a rock hauler? You hadn’t seen it, because you took a sip of coffee at that instant, the wrong instant. You wish you could tell these distracted drivers that they should heed highway signs.

 

Hospital, a potentially consequential sign

This blue sign—a nice blue, not too dark, not too light—with a white arrow pointing west, reminds you of that day not too long ago. This sign does not point to the hospital where you were taken, but points toward another hospital that you assume is quite capable of saving lives. 

 

Oklahoma Welcome Center sign

You wish you could still piss and take a dump and eat cherry icebox cookies with a mug of coffee and talk to Elizabeth and love her. It’d feel really good to do all those things. 

Well, the least you can do is to stop by the Welcome Center.

Kathleen Rodgers

I settle into reading the menu at the Main Street Bakery in Grapevine waiting for Kathleen Rodgers.  She enters the cozy lit bistro, all energy and enthusiasm. We smile and hug, glad to see each other. The last time we met here was to plan our tribute/memorial service for a mutual dear friend, Drema Berkheimer who passed away last summer. 

 

Kathleen should be a poster child for Stone Soup. Beginning in January 2008 she was a regular, twice a month, at Mark Noble’s gathering. In those days the Garret lived above the shop of Paperbacks Plus on Skillman and La Vista. The Garret was truly a garret then. We had shabby digs with old stuffed furniture, tables marked with the patina of coffee and wine glass rings, bookshelves and posters yellowing around the edges topped with a certain air that combined a bit of mildew, dust and decay. 

 

It was wonderful.

 

Kathleen and her family moved to Texas in 1992. She was already a published writer, starting from her high school newspaper, moving on to cub reporter at her local paper, and had pieces published at Family Circle. And, she was writing her first novel, The Final Salute, drawn from her experience as an Air Force wife.

 

While her sons were in school, she kept regular office hours writing, submitting, free-lancing and tapping out the keys. She joined some local writer’s groups but could never find the right fit.  For a while she took expensive classes at a Dallas university. Kathleen learned a great deal in that writing community. However, something was missing. Plus, the tuition budget was cutting into her home improvement budget: she wanted granite countertops in her kitchen!

 

She heard about The Writers Garret on KERA and parked that info on the back burner. La Vista and Skillman were a long drive from her home in Colleyville. Not only was it a trek, but the thought of taking classes with real writers was intimidating. (I suppose the Garret overdid its sales pitch with its close ties to bestselling authors.)

 

Desire overcoming intimidation, Kathleen began with Stone Soup. Here she found her writing home. Support, critique, helpful suggestions and community! Writers are a lonely bunch: scribbling away in coffee shops, libraries or a corner of the kitchen. We need community. We need to bounce our words, our stories, basically share our hearts and souls, with other strivers to know that what we spend our time doing is worthwhile.  

Main Street Bakery is getting crowded as our brunch spills over into lunch time.  The waitress very politely asks us several times if everything is okay and, do we want any more to eat? Eventually, we get the hint. Of course, we are not done talking. I climb into the passenger seat of Kathleen’s yacht like vehicle and she drives down streets lined with old houses, wide porches, great set-backs. She points out that this house is where she decided one character should live and across the street is the basis of the home of a different character.  And for her work in progress, yet another old home.

 

It is this specificity, this use of what is there for us to see and use, that strike me. Kathleen is always writing. She works her craft using the tools available to all of us, borrowing details that bring scenes to life. The stuff that engage readers, letting them in on the texture of her characters’ lives.  

 

Kathleen has a mantra: “God gave me a teaspoon of talent and a gallon of determination. When mixed together I milk it for all it’s worth.” 

 

That she has. Kathleen Rodgers has four published novels, with a fifth one in the works. The Final Salute put her on the radar for military novels. Her second novel Johnnie Come Lately won the 2015 Gold Medal from Military Writers Society of America (MSWA). She is a 2019 MWSA Mike Mullins Memorial Writer of the Year Finalist.

Barbara Shinn

Barbara Shinn is a retired pathologist who is still trying to figure out what she wants to be when she grows up. She has long resided in Dallas, but it should be the Carolina coast. Pistachio is her favorite shade of ice cream.

Between the Lines 

I long to lay you out naked,

magnifying glass in hand,

to read, digest, every line  

upon your thigh.

 

Enticed by the ink flowing down your arm,

flowery script a sharp

contrast to the shoulders’ sans-serif Magnum,

Creepy Morgus, Cloister Black.

 

I trace with one finger the curl

around your ear, tongue

the salt curve ringing

the simple couplet of your neck.

 

Heat rises skin on skin,

sweat swirling lines: 

a love poem,

a comrade, a fallen friend.

 

Isaiah celebrates at your wrist, and proclaims

awful judgement from your ankle.

The trees clap hands.

A voice cries in the wilderness. 

 

I hear your silence,    

 

your scrape of chair.

You move past, smiling excuses.

I wipe traces of ink from my fingers

and turn away.

Suitcases

My sister says I remember nothing.

Echoes of locker room ridicule,

prom night solitude,

the after-school smell of unwashed depression,

are packed in an over-stuffed suitcase 

as at vacation’s end,

dirty laundry spilling out the sides,

straddled to close,

long residing dust-covered under the bed.

 

I am much better at packing now.

Train wreck marriage precisely compartmentalized,

(takes up less room every year).

LLBean toiletry bag, purple-orange plaid, 

holds memories of quality time with the kids,

graffiti aerosol side pockets for son,

tiny angst pouches for daughter.

 

Sexual improprieties are discreetly rolled 

and stuffed along the sides.

(Thongs, which take up no room, 

uncustomary during the sexual revolution.)

 

My father’s bewildered look 

at the nursing home,

“tough love” at my teen’s totaled car,

guilt and parental failures of air balloon enormity,

are wrangled into an entire partitioned half.

 

Fear I keep in my carry-on,

ever ready for that  2 am phone call,

the gnarly mammogram shadow,

secured so as not to tumble out

while diving for M&Ms.

 

All in all, a neatly packed ensemble

appropriately tagged. God help

 

when dementia

springs the locks.