Do I Have to Wear a Label?

Many writers are identified by one genre. Some are poets and that is all they write. Some are novelists. Some write only creative non-fiction.

I like to write it all -- fiction, non-fiction and poetry. I also enjoy interviewing people and writing about what they have to say. I write passionately about subjects like indoor air pollution and multiple chemical sensitivity. I probably write more personal essays than anything.

So, am I a writer? A poet? A journalist? A memoirist? 

Do I have to be put into a box? Do I have to wear a label like a box of spaghetti on the shelf? 

In recent weeks I've published a review of a novel, an interview with a writer, and I have interviewed another writer. I am in the  process of finding the best home for that piece now.

Almost everyday I write a post for one of my blogs. These posts seldom have anything to do with poetry, but at times I will publish a poem on one of my blogs because it is short and because I want to share it. And sometimes I have a poem that seems to fit with my subject for that day. 

However some people think of me simply as a poet. I wear many hats in my life. I am a writer, a blogger, a poet, a teacher, a mentor, a business owner, a volunteer. Some people refer to me as a publicist at times. 

Variety makes anything more fun, I believe. I have been asked, "Can I write creative non-fiction and write poetry as well?"

Of course you can. At a recent reading at John C. Campbell Folk School, I read a true story, a memoir, and had many compliments from my audience. I also read one or two poems that evening. 

My friend, Estelle, says she tends to write poetry when she wants to express serious feelings and emotions. She finds that memoir helps her tell about her family, her past, her history. But short stories are her path to share humor. Another friend, Mary Mike, writes touching poetry that lingers in the mind of the reader, but her short fiction is memorable as well.

I might sit down to write and find that my subject lends itself to personal essay better than to poetry. I might begin to write a non-fiction piece and find that I'd rather embellish it and make it a short story (fiction).

If you look, you will see that I have published short stories, personal essays, articles in magazines and newspapers, memoir, and poetry. I like to do it all.

Below see where some of my short stories and memoir pieces are published in magazines, journals and anthologies:

How We Met – Forks in the Road -Anthology
Reunion – Reunions Magazine
Tar, Tallow and Prayer -- Moonshine and Blind Mules and other Western North Carolina Tales, 2006
Confrontation  --Muscadine Lines; A Southern Journal - 2009
What Did You Say? - Dead Mule School of Southern Literature - April, 2010
The Trillium -- Echoes Across the Blue Ridge, Essays, stories and poems by writers living in and inspired by the southern Applachian Mountains.
Pass it on - Breath and Shadow, online journal, July 15 issue,; ICL Newsletter, 2011, Clay County Progress Newspaper
Buck, My Brother Ned and the Snake -Muscadine Lines: A Southern Journal - 2011     
Public Domain - Dead Mule School of Southern Literature - April 2012   

Let me introduce you to Kathy

I have a new blog URL listed on the sidebar under Great Places to Visit. The blogger is Kathy Rhodes who edited a great southern themed online journal, Muscadine Lines; a Southern Journal, until she ended that venture last year.

I was happy to have a couple of my pieces accepted by Kathy.

You can read them here:
http://www.asouthernjournal.com/Ezine/Archives/2009/2009v27beall.html
http://www.asouthernjournal.com/Ezine/Archives/2011/2011v36beall.html
I see where we can order a copy of the anthology of all authors who have been published on Muscadine Lines. My work is in that book.

Kathy writes about a trip she is on similar to the one I call the cruise from Hell a couple of years ago. I went with my sister and brother in law on a cruise that would take us up the New England coast and on to New Brunswick Canada and to Nova Scotia. It would have been a dream trip except I became ill standing in line for hours waiting to get on the ship. The computers were down.

And, on the ship there was a perfume shop that sprayed the crew members each morning with "fragrance of the day" so the entire inside of the ship was polluted with chemicals that I had to breathe. One day I'll write more about all that. But Kathy is enjoying her trip and I'm happy for her. 

Reading Kathy's post today reminded me we did have a couple of days when I was able to leave the ship and enjoy the fabulous countryside. I still go back in my mind to the drive above Fundy Bay and along the shoreline dotted with white houses and buildings that begged to be subjects for a large painting.

I learned also that Kathy lost her husband, Charlie, five years ago June 27.  So she and I have much in common. The anniversary of Barry's death is July 21. She has written a memoir,
Remember the Dragonflies, which she tells about on her blog. I want to read it. 

Visit Kathy at /http://kathyrhodes.wordpress.com/

A Short Story, Fiction for a change, not memoir

The following is a short story, not a memoir, I wrote for an online class I took last year. It was published in Muscadine Lines: A Southern Journal.
The class leaders give great prompts or first lines that spark the imagination and I have loved taking this free class.

                                                        Confrontation
                                                       by Glenda Beall

It had been a hard day at the diner and my feet hurt as I made the long walk home. All I could think about was a shower and crawling into bed – my empty bed now that Charles had left. It had been six months, and I had come to enjoy climbing under my crisp sheets, my pink and white coverlet, having all the room to myself, the pillows piled up behind me while I watched reruns of "Golden Girls."

Now that Charles was gone, I ate an early dinner. He always wanted two or three drinks before we sat down. By then he was irritable. He complained about my cooking.
“This is overdone. Can’t you remember how I like my steak?”
My answer was always, “I’m sorry, Charles.”
“One of these days I’m gonna just stop coming home. I can eat better food in a diner.”
We’d been married ten years, and two were happy. The third year, I learned that Charles was cheating on me. I didn’t have the courage to leave him. I loved him and he promised me the affair was over. I believed him and dreamed of having a family together.
As I walked home along Madison Street, deserted as usual in the evening, I heard footsteps behind me. I turned my head and glanced back. A man in a dark overcoat followed about fifty feet behind me. He wore a hat pulled low over his forehead. A shiver ran down my spine, and I wondered if I should be afraid or if I was over-reacting. Charles accused me of over-reacting when I found an orange lipstick in his car. I knew it was not mine.

I walked faster, and it seemed to me the footsteps behind me grew faster as well. Someone is chasing me, I thought, and I am alone and helpless.

On either side of the street, the buildings were dark and closed. Should I run, or should I continue to walk normally? If I ran, would he be more apt to attack or if I continued to walk as though I were not afraid, would he continue to follow me? Maybe I’d reach my apartment before he made his play. My mind raced with possible actions I might take, but none of them seemed feasible. I felt sweat trickle down my sides.

If I still had the cell phone, I’d call 911, but my contract had run out. I stopped carrying it with me. When Charles left me and took his girlfriend to live in Brazil, I realized I barely had enough money left to pay the rent. Scouring classifieds in the newspaper, I found the job at Martha’s Grill, working in the kitchen. No one there ever complained about my cooking.

As I walked and thought of Charles’ cruelty, his dumping me for another woman, my anger mounted.
“Charles, if I die here on this street, it’s your fault. If this man attacks me, I’ll come back and haunt you and make your life as miserable as you made mine.”

Suddenly I realized I was talking out loud. I turned and stopped in my tracks. Defiance on my face and in my voice, I yelled at the man in black.

“What do you want? I have no money. I’m broke! You took it all. You left me with nothing. Here,” I held out my large black bag. “Take it! Take my bag with nothing in it but used Kleenex, cough drops.” I began pulling things from the bag. “Last week’s sale flyer from Bostwick’s Discount Foods. You never ate discounted food. You always had to have the most expensive of everything, didn’t you, Charles?” I screamed at the man who had stopped about ten feet from me. He stood like a dark statue outlined by the pale light of a street lamp.

Aggravated by his silence, I threw the handbag as hard as I could. It sailed like a huge black raven taking wing. It fell on the ground before him. I stood there refusing to run, refusing to give in again. I’d not lie down and roll over like a submissive bitch ever again – not for anyone. This time I’d fight. Adrenaline coursed through my body like a rushing river charging over its banks. I became Zena, warrior princess, ready to take on a stranger, or Charles, or whoever threatened me.

My self-pity, my fear, flew away like my flying handbag. In its place self-confidence sprang forth, confidence to challenge the unknown, to confront it head on. I crouched, breathing hard, filling my lungs to their depths, every muscle tightened, poised to fight for myself.

The black suited figure stood quietly for a moment, turned to his right, ambled across the deserted street and disappeared around the corner.

© Glenda Beall


If you have any comments about this story, like it or don't, I'd love to hear what you think.