JNR Writing: January 2014

Swain (and Stein) to the Rescue

One of the first things Swain mentions in his book “Techniques of the Selling Writer,” is the concept of specificity. Newbie writers, he tells us, write in general terms. They talk of “people” and “sheep”, “rivers” and “lands”. Experienced, selling authors, however, describe the passerby in the purple top hat, stopping to stare at our main character, mouth agape and gold tooth shining. The professional writer will talk about the blackface sheep with the limp, hobbling as fast as it can from the wolf and bleating to its fleeing mother. The beginning writer might also discuss “rain”, and then modify the rain with the word “hard”, instead of using the specific noun “downpour” or even, “monsoon”. Adjectives can be almost eliminated if one uses the correct, specific noun instead of a generic noun.

The same is true for adverbs and verbs. If one “ran quickly”, perhaps one “sprinted”. If someone “laughs heartily”, maybe it is more appropriate to say he “guffaws”. The right verb can clarify the action without using an adverb (most of the time). This is how adverbs and adjectives got such a bad name in writing: it isn’t because they are bad, but simply because many a beginning author will use them instead of picking a specific noun and verb.

I’m also going to highlight, in a separate color, redundant words, verb phrases, and prepositional phrases, all of which can be addressed by using specific nouns and verbs.

As an example, I will work with a flash fiction piece of my own called “Holy Woman”.

Original text: (933 words)

The yellow light from the windows smears out across the snow, casting the flickering shadows of the dancers intolonglines of motion. Despite the frigid air, I can still fell the warmth of the praise and faithin my blood. I thank the man againfor his hospitality and immediately stumble blindly as my breath fogs up my glasses. His strong grip on my arm steadies me until my breath evaporates off the lenses. Maybe he had glasses once up on a time, but as I look at his handsome, dedicated face I can see no evidence of spectacles now.

“I wouldn’t want you to catch cold out here; it’s a long walk to the bus stop,” he tells me, careful to keep his breath-cloud pointed away. “And all that waiting ou tin the cold? No, I’ll drive you home.”

I smile, trying to ignore the warm, squirmy feeling low in my stomach that threatens to overwhelm me whenever I look in his eyes.

I break away from thelight grayeyes, so compellingly wrapped in dark lashes. I cannot look, or else I will lose my composure. I can’t lose my composure.

His careis a docile tan vehicle in a line offlashiercars. It’s a boxy design, and a practical decision in this kind of climate. The good-natured ribbing of hisyoungersiblings precedes them to the vehicle, and soon all is slamming doors and laughing as he opens the door for me.

I bundle myself in, trying to dust the snow that has blownup on me during theshortwalk. I avoid his eyes this way for almost ten secondsbefore I realize he has not started the car.

When I turn to ask him if there’s something wrong, the intensity of his gaze stops my tongue. I feel as though my mouth has frozen into a surprised “oh!” shape, stuck by theicy, fieryeyesneedling into mine.

“I wanted to ask you a question,” he nearly whispers.

Even though I’m consciousof the noise and vibration ofarguingyoungmen in the back seat, I can hear his low voice as clearly as if his mouth were against my ear. Goosebumps stand up on my arms, blessedly covered by my coat, as I imagine the tickle of his warm breath on my ear. If only he had beenthat close!

My tongue comes unglued, “ask away,” I tell him, trying to lighten up the heaviness in my stomach. How can I advise this man in this state? I try to pray, to communewith my godwhilekeeping my gaze locked on this Adonis.

“My brothers,” he says, and he cocks his head toward the backseat, “they have some friends who come over. These friends live so dangerously, taking risks and playing games that are too mature for them. They’re rebellious and disrespectful, but I like them. And the boys do, too. I guess I’m not sure what I should do about it.” He leans in closer, listening for my answer.

I have to close my eyes to keep his beauty from distracting me. “Are you responsible for these kids? If they get hurt while they are under your care, are you responsible?”

I can hear the petulant tone of The Old Crone in my voice, and inwardly I cringe. Even though it was the Sybil he wanted, I wished I didn’t have to set him thinking of me as some Prophetess. I wanted him to thinkof me as a woman, not a shaman.

But the gleam in his eye tells me I have done what he wanted. He leans in closer, almost halfway across the carnow, and eagerly nods. “Yes!” he hisses.

The Crone smiles with my face, and says with my mouth, “then you know what you must do. You must guard and keep these boys as you guard and keep your brothers. They will see how you care for them and how you are just and kind, and they will respond.”

I feel the holy presence leave me and sighin relief. When I look back to him, he is nodding, pulling the car out from his parking spot, and beginning the drive down the lane. I watch him mullingover the witchy words I spoke, and I wonder if he knows the power that comes over me, the role that assumes me in necessity.

But no, I know he doesn’t. He glances over to me appreciatively, but not the way I want.

“Yes,” he says, smiling.

I can see the creamy, satisfied look in his eyes. His oracle has performedas he wished.

Diminished, I lookout the front windowin timeto see the bus stop ahead. “Could you pull over here?” I ask him.

I see the hesitation, and I add, “I feel a strong pull by the Spirit to be here, now.”

He nods in agreement and pulls the car over. Before he can open his door, I have leapt knee-deep into the snowbankat the side of the road. I start closing the door, but his voice stops me.

“If you don’t mind me asking, is there anything you struggle with, that I might help?”

I look one more time at the sculpted face and the hair like the tips of raven’s wings. His whole countenance is touched by awe and submission—a stain across the otherwise perfect features. I look away.

“The Devil,” I say to him. “Every day.Inside us all.”

I shut the door on his worship and wait for the bus.

Notice that I have not highlighted anything in the speech. Why not? Because people talk like this. I will, however, make sure (in a later lesson) that each character stands out (sounds different, has specific details).

I took out the prepositional phrases, simplified the verbs, and removed (most of)the adverbs and the adjectives. Note that the majority of the story makes sense, but it is much shorter (541):

The light smears, casting shadows. Despite the air, praise and faith warm my blood. I thank the man and stumble as my breath fogs up my glasses. His grip steadies me until my breath evaporates off the lenses. Maybe he wore glasses once, but I see no evidence of spectacles.

“I wouldn’t want you to catch cold out here; it’s a long walk to the bus stop.” He keeps his breath-cloud pointed away. “And all that waiting out in the cold? No, I’ll drive you home.”

I smile, ignore my stomachwhich threatens to overwhelm me.I break away. I cannot look, or else I will lose my composure. I can’t lose my composure.

His younger siblings’ ribbing precedes us. he opens the door.

I bundle myself in, dusting snow off. I avoid his eyes.

“Is there something wrong?” His eyes needle into mine.

His gaze stops my tongue. My mouth freezes into an “oh!” shape.

“I wanted to ask you a question,” he whispers.

The brothers argue in the back seat, but I hear his voice as clearly as if his mouth were against my ear. Goosebumps stand as I imagine the tickle of his breath. If only he were close!

My tongue unglues, “ask away.” My stomach lightens. How can I advise this man? I commune with my god until my gaze locks on this Adonis.

“My brothers,” he cocks his head, “they have some friends who come over. These friends live so dangerously, taking risks and playing games that are too mature for them. They’re rebellious and disrespectful, but I like them. And the boys do, too. I guess I’m not sure what I should do about it.” He leans in, listening.

I shutout his beauty. “Are you responsible for these kids? If they get hurt while they are under your care, are you responsible?”

The Old Crone speaks for me, and I cringe. He wanted the Sybil, but I wished he saw me, not some Prophetess. A woman, not a shaman.

His eyes gleam. He leans in closer. “Yes!” he hisses.

The Crone smiles with my face, her words pour forth, “then you know what you must do. You must guard and keep these boys as you guard and keep your brothers. They will see how you care for them and how you are just and kind, and they will respond.”

The presence releases me. I watch him mull my witchy words. Does he know the power that assumes me in necessity?

But no, he doesn’t. He glances over to me.“Yes,” he says, smiling. His eyes film over. His oracle performed as expected.

Diminished, I look through the windshield to the bus stop ahead. “Could you pull over here?”

He hesitates.

“I feel a strong pull by the Spirit to be here, now.”

He nods and pulls over. Before he can open his door, I leap knee-deep into the snowbank. His voice stops (snags?) me. I wait.

“If you don’t mind me asking, is there anything you struggle with, that I might help?”

Sculpted face and raven hair taunt me. Awe and submission stain his features. I look away.“The Devil.Every day.Inside us all.”

I shut the door on his worship and wait for the bus.

So, what about using specific nouns and verbs? Great question! As you can see, just taking out the extra verbiage isn’t really enough to make the story pop. In order to do that, we review the text again, but this time, we insert very specific nouns and active verbs wherever we can.

The light smears, throws shadows. Despite the chill, praise and faith warm my blood. I thank the man and stumble as my breath fogs up my glasses. His grip steadies me until I see again. Kindness confuses me: maybe he wore glasses once. I see no evidence of spectacles. Maybe he wants something from me.

“I wouldn’t want you to catch cold out here; it’s a long walk to the bus stop.” He averts his breath-cloud. “And all that waiting out in the cold? No, I’ll drive you home.”

I smile. My stomach lurches.I glance away. I cannot look, or else I will lose my composure. I can’t lose my composure.

His younger siblingsrib each other. He opens the passenger’s door.

I bundle myself in, dusting snow off. I avoid his eyes. (shut the door, get in the other side, still bothered by kindness)

“Is there something wrong?” His eyes needle into mine.

His gaze stops my tongue. My mouth freezes into an “oh!” shape.

“I wanted to ask you a question,” he whispers.

The brothers argue in the back seat, but I hear his voice as clearly as if his mouth were against my ear. Goosebumps stand as I imagine his breath tickling my neck. If only he were close!

My tongue unglues, “ask away.” My stomach lightens. How can I advise this man? I commune with my god until my gaze locks on this Adonis.

I shutout his beauty. “Are you responsible for these kids? If they get hurt while they are under your care, are you responsible?”

The Old Crone speaks for me, and I cringe. He wanted the Sybil, but I wished he saw me, not some Prophetess. A woman, not a shaman.

His eyes gleam. He leans in closer. “Yes!” he hisses.

The presence releases me. I watch him mull my witchy words. Does he know the power that assumes me in necessity?

But no, he doesn’t. He glances over to me.“Yes,” he says, smiling. His eyes film over. His oracle performed as expected.

Diminished, I look through the windshield to the bus stop ahead. “Could you pull over here?”

He hesitates.

“I feel a strong pull by the Spirit to be here, now.”

He nods and pulls over. Before he can open his door, I leap knee-deep into the snow bank. His voice snags me. I wait.

“If you don’t mind me asking, is there anything you struggle with, that I might help?”

Sculpted face and raven hair taunt me. Awe and submission stain his features. I look away. “The Devil.Every day.Inside us all.”

I shut the door on his worship and wait for the bus.

Note that we didn’t change much—yet. But already, the words we changed have given a more specific picture of the events. The reason I haven’t gone into too much of the word-changing is this: Our lessons are not complete. Before I delve in and worry about how I’m wording something, I first want to go into the story and answer some questions. First, from Swain:

· What is the story about?
· What is the climax?
· How is the climax a choice between following the protagonist’s values or not?
· What is her easy way out?
· How does the protagonist get what she deserves?

These are weighty questions.

Firstly, in a sentence, the story is about a woman considered Holy by others, who does not feel so holy. In other words, people are attributing Holiness to her, when she feels that it is some other presence working in her. The Climax of the story is her decision to continue (what she feels is) the charade. Her values tell her not to lie. Her body tells her that she wants this man—this is the real her. By denying her body’s desires (according to some of her values), she is actually promoting this Holy lie (violating other values).

In this case, there are two easy ways out: she can continue the charade, or she can permanently destroy the charade and let her lust take over. The valiant way would be to correct him, and not take advantage of him, all at the same time.

How does the protagonist get what she deserves? By continuing the Holy Woman sham, she is so disgusted with herself that she purposely puts herself back out into the cold.

Great. Now we know what the story is about. Let’s switch writing coaches for a moment, and move to Sol Stein. While both coaches describe writing as the production of emotion in the reader, Stein goes a bit further:

Which emotions are we trying to convey in each portion of the story—and do those emotions make sense, according to the climax?

At the climax of the story, we want to feel the strength of the walls boxing in our protagonist. Once she makes her decision, I want the audience to feel …what do I want them to feel? I want them to feel sympathetic to the woman, so I have to give her no choice but to continue the farce. I want them to feel like there is no good answer, only a lesser of two evils. Because of this, she has no choice but to be punished, and it is because it is her judgment alone calling her Holiness a farce, she punishes herself. The reader must feel like she is creating her own prison, but be sympathetic to her in the same way.

Wow, that’s complicated, right?

Of course it is. You thought that all that BS in High School was the teacher putting his/her own views into a piece of fiction, didn’t you? Well, maybe it was and maybe it wasn’t. There’s a lot of intent that is put in a story, or a book, or everything else. It is manufactured.

So, the first feeling we want is one of sympathy. Since we want the reader to feel this way throughout the story, I’m going to address it later. Secondly, we want people to feel that there is no right answer. Already we have a plot hole: I mentioned earlier that a third option was to just talk to Adonis, tell him that it was all a lie, that she wasn’t holy, and that it was something else moving inside her.

So what do we do? We take this option away. How do we take it away? We have her go ahead and take this option, and we make it not work. That’s the most obvious way to do it. Now we only have to evils: follow the script laid out for her, or nail the hot guy in the car. Voila! Character effectively boxed in.

Thirdly, we want the reader to feel, in the climax, that her feelings belong only to her; the outside world sees her very differently. Because we can only show this through dialogue (whether spoken or unspoken) because of the POV, this ties into another one of Stein’s commandments: dialogue is a conflict. All dialogue should be a conflict.

In our current story, the dialogue is not a conflict. It’s an exchange of information:

Char 1: “I have a question.”

Char 2: “I have an answer.”

Char 1: “I have another question.”

Char 2: “I have an answer to that question, too.”

READER: Ho, hum.

So, what if we revamp the dialogue?

He takes her arm and tells her he won’t let her wait out in the cold for the bus. He’ll drive her home. What if he says, instead, that he knows such a spiritual woman doesn’t mind the cold, but he’d be honored to drive her home? This way, he’s kissing up to her, but he’s also trapping her.

She’s already suspicious. She looks at him. He’s effing cute. “No, son, don’t waste your time on an old hag like me.”

“Come on,” he insists. Well, that’s what he would insist if he DIDN’T think she was some Saint. But he does. So he says, “It’s no trouble at all.” And leads her toward the car.

(the kids are misbehaving)

Adonis yells at the kids, to get them to settle down. Now he’s established authority.

“It’s all right; I don’t mind. Boys will be boys,” She’s enjoying their antics, still feels uneasy, like there are strings attached.

“Actually, I want to be able to talk with you. You see, I have this question.”

Aha!

Sympathy: “No, child, let this old woman rest.”

“You’re not that old,”

“And yet, you lap at my font of wisdom” (sarcasm).

“It’s just a quick question. Look, the car is already warm.”

“I am not a Saint, child. I am a woman. Just a woman. I have no special powers or divine spirit.”

“I’ve seen you in the Spirit.”

“You don’t know what you saw.” At the same time: damn, that door is closed.

“Just hear me out.”

“Ask away” (sarcasm). Better: “Ask, then.”

Giving Space

Swain believes in space. He believes that, the more important an event is to the story, the more space it should take up.

Let’s assume that our story is 1000 words long—the upper limit of flash fiction. Our climax is the most important part of the story. We could conceivably give the climax of our story 250-500 words. Let’s keep that in the back of our minds, while we work on one more important item: the plot diagram.

Plot diagram

In middle school or high school, you may have come across a Plot diagram. The picture looks something like this:

There’s an intro, rising action, a climax, falling action, and resolution. In real life, most plot diagrams look like this:

But the same ideas are there. This plot diagram is also called a tension line, because it graphs the reader’s tension throughout the story. Tension is what we want the reader to feel, because the reader reads in order to experience safe tension (much like a roller coaster is a safe form of tension). But, in using Swain’s understanding of space, the graph becomes this (for a flash fiction as short as this one):

This is because, in a very short story, there are only a few events that lead up to the climax. The climax and the end of the story (the character getting what he/she deserves) take up the majority of the story. In fact, in our example, about half.

So now we know how our story is going to be structured. We know we want (in this case) two or three events that ratchet up the tension, until we get to our climax. Then we want to show the protagonist making a decision between following her values or not, and getting what she deserves.

Our events, as we’ve outlined our story, need to generate sympathy for the old woman AND set up the climax.

So far, we have these events in the story:

· The woman falls down.
· The man offers the woman a ride. (she’s suspicious)
· The man asks a question, once she’s trapped in the car and they are pulling off. (she’s trapped)
· The parts of her fight one another

Since we only want two or three events in the story, then we can probably lose the woman slipping in the snow from her foggy glasses. Besides, glasses usually fog up worse when you go into someplace warm, so what if we make her feel even more vulnerable by making her glasses fog when she’s in the car with him, helpless.

How does the story start? Well, she’s a Holy Woman, so it starts off with her being Holy.

Characterization

Swain discusses the significant detail when describing characters. A significant detail about her appearance: Maybe our Holy Woman keeps a piece of jewelry. Maybe it’s a rosary necklace. That would make Christians uncomfortable. Maybe it’s a rosary necklace with a five-pointed star. That would make Christians incredibly uncomfortable. Maybe she shows this symbol to try to get out of telling the man the answer he seeks.

A significant detail about her personality: she is viewing what many people would consider the Holy Spirit as some kind of invading spirit. She does not like someone else speaking with her voice. Even if that someone might be God. And it might be God: she really doesn’t know, but simply isn’t comfortable with it.

She is trapped, literally in the car, by the weather and the driving, and figuratively because both extremes she feels are unacceptable. She can neither give in to lust nor give in to Holiness. She is not either one, but a mixture of both. Yet she is trapped to do one or the other.

So, let us take our sentences, our events, and put them in the order they go, knowing all we know about how our story is going to go:

The light smears, throws shadows. Despite the chill, praise and faith warm my blood. A beautiful man slides his arm into mine.

“I know such a spiritual woman as yourself don’t mind the cold, but I’d be honored to drive you home.” His voice, syrup sweet, warms me. As do his chocolate-colored eyes.

“No, son, don’t waste your time on an old hag like me.”

“It’s no trouble at all.” And leads me toward the car.

His younger siblings rib each other. He opens the passenger’s door.

I bundle myself in, dusting snow off. I avoid his eyes. (shut the door, get in the other side, still bothered by kindness). I smile. My stomach lurches. I glance away. I cannot look, or else I will lose my composure. I can’t lose my composure. He wants something. It’s the only reason such a beautiful man would ask her into his car. Last Sunday had been equally cold; but he had not offered then.

Adonis yells at the kids, to get them to settle down. Now he’s established authority.

“It’s all right; I don’t mind. Boys will be boys,” She’s enjoying their antics, still feels uneasy, like there are strings attached.

He pulls the car out into the street. The automatic locks click down. “Actually, I want to be able to talk with you. You see, I have this question.”

Aha!

Sympathy: “No, child, let this old woman rest.” She clutches her necklace beads.

“You’re not that old,”

“And yet, you lap at my font of wisdom” (sarcasm). She toys with the necklace, letting the pentacle capture the light.

“It’s just a quick question. I’ve heard you answer questions in church for others. I’ve seen the Spirit come over you. You’re Holy.”

“I am not a Saint, child. I am a woman. Just a woman. I have no special powers or divine spirit.” Just a woman, she thought. Her eyes drifted over his body. Maybe she could prove it?

“I’ve seen you in the Spirit.”

“You don’t know what you saw. I have no choice about when the Spirit moves in me. The Crone, I call it. A witch”

“You are not a witch. Just hear me out.”

My stomach lightens. How can I advise this man? I commune with my god until my gaze locks on this Adonis.

Does he know the power that assumes me in necessity? Right now, his cocoa eyes, fringed with delicate lashes, lure me in. I wet my lips. Parts of me, long since dried by menopause, tingle in the same way they tingled with the first boy I ever loved. My cheeks redden.

But when The Spirit—The Crone—overtakes me, I lose all of that. The zest will drain away. I feel Her now, sucking pink life from my lips. Drying me out. Calling me Magdalene, wanton, whorish. The Whore of Babylon and the Crone Who Serves the Lord. One or the other. Never balance. Never both.

Does he know the power that assumes me in necessity? Is he aware of the strength of the Spirit, that it will take over my mouth, my lips, my womb? Is he aware that, in the Spirit, I could kill his brothers for their accidental blasphemies, or stone him for an adulterer?

Does he know the power that assumes me in necessity? How close is he to God? How tight the bond between his Spirit and the Spirit of Truth? If he knew the Spirit, wouldn’t he already know the answer?

But no, he doesn’t. He glances over to me. Chocolate eyes melt my tongue. Magdalene, the Spirit whispers to me. She will not be denied, the Crone.

I shut out his beauty, let hers in. “You know what you must do. You must guard and keep these boys as you guard and keep your brothers. They will see how you care for them and how you are just and kind, and they will respond.”

The presence releases me. Such a small defeat. A minuscule chip at my individuality. I tempt myself to think that it doesn’t matter that I have eroded myself once more.

I watch him mull my witchy words. His eyes film over. His oracle performed as expected.

Diminished, I look through the windshield to the bus stop ahead. “Could you pull over here?” I hardly recognize my own voice.

He hesitates.

“I feel a strong pull by the Spirit to be here, now.”

He nods and pulls over. Before he can open his door, I leap knee-deep into the snow bank. His voice snags me. I wait.

“If you don’t mind me asking, is there anything you struggle with, that I might help?”

Sculpted face and raven hair taunt me. Awe and submission stain his features. I look away. “The Devil. Every day. You. Me. Inside us all.”

I shut the door on his worship, on his blind faith.

So there it is, our story. The final step is to go back to the beginning, to the specific nouns and active verbs. Doing so yields these changes:

The light smears, throws shadows. Despite the chill, praise and faith warm my blood. Adonis slides his arm into mine.

“I know such a spiritual woman as yourself doesn’t mind the cold, but I’d be honored to drive you home.” His voice, syrup sweet, warms me. As do his chocolate-colored eyes.

“No, son, don’t waste your time on an old hag like me.”

“It’s no trouble at all.” He steers me toward the Buick.

His brothers rib each other. He opens the passenger’s door.

I bundle myself in, dusting snow onto the floor mats. I smile at the heating vents. My stomach lurches with the shocks as he sits. The heating vents help me keep my composure. He wants something. It’s the only reason such a beautiful man would ask me into his car. Last Sunday had been equally cold; but he had not offered then.

The brothers bump the front bench seats.

“Settle down back there!”

“It’s all right; I don’t mind. Boys will be boys,” I say to my wringing hands.

The Buick oozes into the street. Automatic locks click. “Actually, I want to be able to talk with you. You see, I have this question.”

Aha! He does want something from me. Would that I could trade what he wants for what I want: an hour undisturbed, punctuated by giggles and whispers. “No, child, let this old woman rest.” I clutch my tired bosoms.

“You’re not that old,”

“And yet, you lap at my font of wisdom” I dangle my rosary before him, draining the innuendo out onto the floor mats with the melting snow. It has a pentacle on it, but must not see it. If he did, he’d surely say something. Then we could talk about anything other than his spiritual question.

“It’s just a quick question. I’ve heard you answer questions in church for others. I’ve seen the Spirit come over you. You’re Holy.”

Holy. Full of holes. “I am not a Saint, child. I am a woman. Just a woman. I have no special powers or divine spirit.” Just a woman. Maybe I should prove it.

“I’ve seen you in the Spirit.”

“You don’t know what you saw. I have no choice about when the Spirit moves in me. The Crone, I call it. A witch”

“You are not a witch. Just hear me out.” He does not wait for my reply.

But no, he doesn’t. He glances over to me. Chocolate eyes melt my tongue. Magdalene, the Spirit whispers to me. She will not be denied, the Crone.

I shut out his beauty, let Hers in. “You know what you must do. You must guard and keep these boys as you guard and keep your brothers. They will see how you care for them and how you are just and kind, and they will respond.”

The presence releases me. Such a small defeat. A minuscule chip at my individuality. I tempt myself to think that it doesn’t matter that I have eroded myself once more.

I watch him mull my witchy words. His eyes film over. His oracle performed as expected.

Diminished, I look through the windshield to the bus stop ahead. “Could you pull over here?” I hardly recognize my own voice.

He hesitates.

“I feel a strong pull by the Spirit to be here, now.”

He nods and pulls over. Before he can open his door, I leap knee-deep into the snow bank. His voice snags me. I wait.

“If you don’t mind me asking, is there anything you struggle with, that I might help you?”

Sculpted face and raven hair taunt me. But awe and submission stain his features. I look away. “The Devil. Every day. You. Me. Inside us all.” I shut the door on his blind faith.

Friday, January 17, 2014

Check Out my Flash Memoir at "Run to the Roundhouse, Nellie"!

Thursday, January 9, 2014

Something Happened

Tuesday, January 7, 2014