The quirky characters in Cain’t Do Nothing with Love get themselves in the worst pickles, thanks to love. Can love get them out? Join these men and women, dogs and the Devil, as they travel the wandering, unpredictable path of love.
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I have lived in shock for a year. I could not believe that a man who put himself at the center of the universe and tore down everyone around him in the ugliest manner possible had been elevated to the presidency. The vote of my fellow and sister Americans sanctioning his behavior felt like gaslighting, an attempt to convince me that all I saw in him was not so. I have spent the last twelve months searching for, and latching on to, evidence that I was not, in fact, deluded but was right about him, which evidence has poured forth like the proverbial floodwaters.
I’m done with that. I was right. And I’m moving on.
I have my own little red God wagon to take care of. By which I mean, my most important duty is to try to discern the actions God wants me to take, and take them. Every second I spend confirming and reconfirming and confirming yet again that the president is a bigoted bully is time spent away from my work.
The year wasn’t wasted. It’s made me struggle with my own reactions. To parse my very personal anger at a man I don’t even know. To understand how hate-filled public policy gets adopted. To identify exactly who I want to support in the political process. To put the onus back where it belongs: on me.
And what is the next step for me? I have a voice, and I intend to use it in the way I have been given. I will publish work about grief and homelessness and racism and God’s love for the world, the categories I use on this blog to describe who I am. I guarantee you, not a one of them will align with the president’s beliefs. That won’t matter. What’s important is that they will align with mine.
At one point in my life when I was struggling with betrayal, I went to my Episcopal priest for advice. He suggested that during this difficult time, I might find it easier to pray to Mother Mary. I followed his suggestion, and thus began a lifelong relationship with the mother of God. CHERRY BOMB takes this concept and expands it to a near-magical degree. Rather than Mother Mary, in CHERRY BOMB, it is St. Mary of Egypt who offers redemption. How satisfying it was to read Susan Cushman’s new novel that advocates for redemption and forgiveness, healing and reconciliation.
This literary novel (Dogwood Press, 2017) traces the life of a young woman in Macon, Georgia who uses graffiti to process the hurt that life has brought her. (I’m pretty much illiterate about graffiti, but the apartment where I live in New Orleans has as its patron saint Jean-Michel Basquiat, so I was pleased to see his name mentioned in the novel’s early pages.) The story follows homeless young Mare as she meets famous artist Elaine de Kooning.
Elaine de Kooning, of course, is a historical figure, whose life Cushman has fictionalized, while using many facts from her life. De Kooning recognizes Mare’s talent and mentors Mare as an artist. Mare and Elaine came to art by very different paths—one through MTV videos, the other via the Museum of Modern Art. Their interaction leads Mare to enter the more traditional word of art via art school, and to question what she really wants from her art and life. CHERRY BOMB follows the stories of these two women in alternating viewpoints, which enables us to watch as their life histories gradually intersect. It’s wonderful to watch the author weave them together.
I am not going to give away plot points, but I was fascinated with how Cushman brought together the world of graffiti and the world of icons. Icons are a deeply historical form of worship, which Cushman has worked in herself (she created the icon on the back cover of CHERRY BOMB). I didn’t know both graffiti and iconography use the language of “writing” and “stories,” rather than drawing and pictures.
Of course, I’m also drawn to Mare because of her homelessness during much of the story. Her living on the street is well-told, as is the way she copes in that life. Both Mare and Elaine struggle with deeply difficult backgrounds of sexual abuse and abandonment. Working their way to forgiveness of those who have hurt them is hard. St. Mary of Egypt, the patron saint of the author, figures prominently in this process. To include forgiveness of themselves in that journey is remarkable.
DON’T MISS SUSAN’S BOOK SIGNING THURSDAY DECEMBER 14 AT 6:00 pm AT NOVEL. BOOKSTORE, LAURELWOOD SHOPPING CENTER, 387 PERKINS, RD EXTD, MEMPHIS, TN
This is not a major post. It’s a minor post. Due to website upgrades, my spam protection disappeared. Naked, I was inundated with sleazy messages about limp penises, opioid-crisis-level drugs, and loose women. I realize now that this has kept me off the blog, as if creeping near exposed me to cooties.
I’m glad to report protections have been put back in place and spam has dried up. Like a slithering, prehistoric, slimy creature that cannot live without swamp water, it gasps its last breath. I promise to be more loquacious.
peace in creativity, Ellen
The first Community Writers Retreat I put together for Door of Hope Writing Group, the panel of facilitators was white. Every writer I’d identified to come and teach us about writing in an all-day conference was Caucasian. I wasn’t being racist. I was asking for favors: will you come—unpaid—to the Retreat and teach a workshop on writing? Of course I had hit up my writer friends, people I knew best. And the people I knew best were white.
When I had the lineup completed, I looked at the folks I’d selected and thought, wait a minute. So many of our audience weren’t gonna be white. They would be African American. How could I offer them an all-white panel?
This, as they say, would not do.
So what did I do?
That year, and in all the years that followed, I went WAY outside my comfort zone to make sure our lineup of facilitators was predominantly Black.
I asked a mutual friend to please introduce me to a glorious African American writer who I’d heard reading her work. I met with her. I asked if she would be a facilitator for us.
I researched Memphis African American writers. I cold-called a published novelist. I asked if he would please come teach a workshop for us.
I contacted a famous local African American journalist and asked her if she would, perhaps, consider coming to speak to us about writing.
I went to Maggie’s Pharm and asked Valerie June—who had not yet blown up the roots music world and clerked at the store—if she would talk about songwriting to our group.
I called a well-known orator and politely asked if he would perform for us during lunch.
I reached back in time and asked a writer from an old writing group to please come educate us about getting published.
I emailed a preacher who I didn’t know from Adam’s house cat and asked him to come talk about spiritual writing.
I asked a young spoken word artist to entertain us during our lunch break.
I kept at my talented writer friend who did not believe herself ready yet to, please, come enlighten us.
In each and every instant, those I asked said yes. Immediately, graciously, enthusiastically. Several became friends. One we believed for a while to be related to my husband, but that’s whole ‘nother story. All were full of information the participants lapped up. I continue to be incredibly proud to know each one of the facilitators.
It’s not weak to admit your natural approach is to favor your friends. Those who are like you. People you know and are comfortable with. It is, however, wrong to not analytically examine the results for evidence of implicit bias. To ask yourself, is this skewed? Can I benefit from widening the lens? Am I, in fact, abusing my position of power to exclude those who should be included?
That was one of the many, many lessons the Door of Hope Writing Group taught me over the years.
In this delightfully simple book, discover the odd new prayer practice of using broken and found objects to get closer to God.
7 years of writing. 2 years in the making. A lifetime in the living. The story of an extraordinary group of men and women who wrote their way out of homelessness. Edited by Ellen Morris Prewitt.
Word and photo images reflecting the life I’ve lived — so far. Some of it I had control over, some of it I didn’t. I’m glad for all of it. Click Achievements if you want to see it formally presented. View Me to see my life in all its incarnations. Read Stories and Essays for the truth told as well as I can do it. Keep up with my happenings by following the swirling synthesis of my Blog. Settle in with one of my Books—Cain’t Do Nothing with Love to hear my voice reading stories about the
unpredictable path of love; Writing Our Way Home, A Group Journey Out of Homelessness to learn how a writing group of men and women who know homelessness wrote their own book; and, Making Crosses: A Creative Connection to God to discover how a non-artist wrote a book about an artistic prayer practice. Reading, listening, doing. Enjoy what you can; let the rest float away. Thanks so much for stopping by.