The story behind the story

I love what they do over at the Brevity blog. Well, I love everything that Brevity does. But specifically, every so often they invite a writer to explain “the story behind a story” that has appeared in Brevity.

I thought I would attempt an explanation for “Dad Digs Uncle Davey’s Grave,” the story that received an honorable mention in the Writer’s Digest 2008 competition and will appear in the Spring 2009 issue of The Truth About the Fact.

My dad was a gravedigger in small-town Minnesota. He approached his job matter-of-factly. He’d come home after digging and empty the pockets of his dark blue uniform. Spare change, matches, and cigarettes piled on top of the refrigerator. He’d shower, change into slacks and a t-shirt, or, if he was going out for coffee with the guys, a short-sleeved polo or dress shirt.

Dad was a lighthearted, talkative guy who liked to laugh. He didn’t dwell on his job even though we lived in a small town, which meant he buried neighbors, kids of acquaintances, and distant relatives on a regular basis. He buried the old (heart attacks, cancer) and the young (car accidents, suicide). He had a job to do, and he did it. He didn’t speak of his work, at least to me. Perhaps he and mom shared quiet moments, moments where they contemplated mortality and the mystery of the world. I saw none of it.

But “Dad Digs Uncle Davey’s Grave” illustrates a time when Dad couldn’t bear the weight for one more second. It shows a moment of vulnerability, sadness, grief. A moment that I did not witness, but a moment that I call memoir anyway.

My brother, Andy, was with Dad the day my father dug his own brother’s grave. Uncle Davey was just 44, unexpectedly felled by a massive heart attack (like my own dad’s father, and like three brothers that would follow). Davey was buried at Corpus Christi cemetery, across from the church Dad and his siblings attended while growing up. Dad regularly dug at Corpus Christi, so he saw it as his duty to dig there again, even though this time he was burying a brother.

My sister, Renee, first told me the story. She said that Andy once told her that he had to finish burying Uncle Davey because our dad, wracked with sobs, couldn’t do it himself. I was writing my memoir when she told me, and I wanted to include the story in my book somehow. The next time I talked to Andy, I asked him about the story.

“It wasn’t while closing the grave. It was when we were digging it,” he said.

He told me more. Andy and Dad dug the grave together. They finished and put the shovels in the back of the truck. Dad got into the driver’s seat and choked back a sob. They drove just a mile down the road, to a little country store run, an old-fashioned store still hanging on in 1983. The old guard gathered there, guys Dad grew up with, and they all had some beers. After a while, grief overwhelmed Dad. He turned to 15-year-old Andy and said, “You’re going to have to drive home.”

I started the story with, “If I were Andy, I would have been at Corpus Christi cemetery the day Dad dug his brother Davey’s grave.” That “were” and “would” tone is present throughout the short piece (just 1,000 words). I was not there. I did not witness Dad’s grief. I do not claim to have been there. That is not the truth. Perhaps James Frey or Margaret Seltzer or Herman Rosenblatt would “tweak” the events for sake of drama, story. I think the story is just fine without me there. I imagine being there. I imagine seeing what Andy saw, based upon what he told me.

I wish I had been there. To see Dad’s shell cracked, if only for a brief moment. But I was not, so the best I have is my imagination.

Some good news

I got this email yesterday:

"Dear Rachael Hanel,

"The editors at The Truth About The Fact: International Journal of Literary Nonfiction are pleased to accept Dad Digs Uncle Davey’s Grave for publication in the Spring 2009, Volume IV Number I issue. We received over 350 submissions from the international literary community, including impressive narratives about life in South Africa, India, China, Canada, Great Britain and the United States. Your work was one of only 35 pieces selected.


"We respect your commitment to your craft, and we are honored to have this wonderful piece published in our journal."

The interesting thing is that I had been hoping lately for a piece of good news. I have a lot of things out there -- essays and grant applications -- and I was wondering when I would start to hear something about them. I mentioned to David a few days ago that I was really craving some news, and like I always do when I feel this way, I prayed about it. This is NOT the first time that I've prayed for some good news about my writing and it was delivered. I'm still so amazed when that happens.

Author request

I got my first author request this week from a student. He had read my pirates book and wanted to know more about the subject. I was so happy that a student had reached out and found me via the Web. I was also glad to not be the "jerk" author who ignores those types of requests. I won't name names -- refer to blog entries of, oh, probably a year or more back. I can't let that subject go -- ha ha! I have a tendency to hold grudges. I am a Scorpio, after all.

How success happens

I have started Viktor Frankl's MAN'S SEARCH FOR MEANING. He was a Holocaust survivor/psychiatrist who pondered how people could survive such horrid conditions, and how they could survive even though it appeared they had no hope. I came across a great quote right away in the preface:

"Don't aim at success--the more you aim at it and make it a target, the more you are going to miss it. For success, like happiness, cannot be pursued; it must ensue, and it only does so as the unintended side-effect of one's dedication to a cause greater than oneself or as the by-product of one's surrender to a person other than oneself. Happiness must happen, and the same holds for success; you have to let it happen by not caring about it. I want you to listen to what your conscience commands you to do and go on to carry it to the best of you knowledge. Then you will live to see that in the long run--in the long run, I say!--success will follow you precisely because you had forgotten to think of it."

finished third draft

I do declare that I think I've finished a third draft of WE'LL BE THE LAST ONES TO LET YOU DOWN. I think it's still a little rough (especially toward the end) and slightly disjointed, but I'm hoping it will provide a solid foundation for the next rewrite. And I really hope and pray the next rewrite doesn't take two years!

This draft is 224 pages, about 70,000 words. I'm really happy about that, because all this time I've been plagued by the feeling that it wouldn't be long enough. I'm just not a "long" writer -- I blame my journalism background. But short pieces start to add up.

I'm going to let it sit for a bit, maybe do a little polishing here and there, and give it to my lovely friends who have agreed to read it!

Now I have to print it out. I'm sorry for the small tree I'm killing doing that!

3-for-21

I did a year-end tally for submissions/grant applications. Out of 21 submissions, I hit on three (Dust&Fire journal out of Bemidji State, the Writer's Digest competition, and the Jerome grant). Overall 11 rejections, and I'm still waiting to hear on 7.

That is a 14% success rate (or 86% failure rate!). But I will always stand by my mantra that if you submit, submit, submit, something will stick. Who knows, maybe it will even be the big one. For this year, I would say the Jerome grant was the big one for me. I definitely had my heart set on it when I applied.

Fashion pet peeves

I don't know what it is, but I really cannot stand Uggs. Intellectually, I like them. I think they're cute. But it's the fact that I see them on most EVERYONE. At least, most everyone under the age of 22. I guess I've always revolted against trends. At the mall one night, I decided to count the number of Uggs I saw people wearing. Nine. And I was at the mall for 15 minutes.

But please, please, please, if you must wear your Uggs, please don't wear them over sweatpants. Jeans only, or some type of tight pant. Leave the baggy crap at home.

And I'm still seeing far too much fleshy skin hanging like dough over tight waistbands, skin exposed by too small, too tight tops.

And the soap I just used in the Caribou restroom smells like bad cologne that an unfashionable high school boyfriend wore. Bad memories.