Posts by Lee Martin
The Grandfather I Never Knew
When I was a small boy, I spent Christmas Day with my mother’s side of the family at my grandmother’s house. She lived on the corner where two gravel roads intersected across from the Berryville Store. At one point, she and my grandfather had managed that store, but by the time I came along in…
Read MoreThe Hidden Object: A Prompt for Fiction Writers
This week before Christmas, I’m thinking about how, as a child, I couldn’t resist searching for presents my mother had hidden from me. I wish I could say I was a better kid who could resist that temptation, but, alas. . . . Of course, one of two things happened whenever I found a gift…
Read MoreThe Shadows They Leave Behind: Research and Narrative
Some of you may recall that my wife Cathy recently discovered the identity of her biological father. This discovery has sent her in search of information about her ancestors. Yesterday, she learned that a son of her great-great grandfather was Lockwood Lewis, a saxophonist who played with the Dixieland Jug Blowers in the 1920s and…
Read MoreWhat-Iffing in Historical Fiction
In 1845 near where I grew up in southeastern Illinois, a woman named Betsey Reed stood trial, accused of murdering her husband by poisoning him with arsenic. This is the factual basis for my new novel, The Glassmaker’s Wife, whose publication date is this Tuesday. On Thursday December 8 at 6pm, Eastern time, I’ll be…
Read MoreJoining a Community of Writers
It’s been a glorious Thanksgiving weekend. On Thursday, Cathy and I provided a meal for, and enjoyed the company of, six people associated with our MFA program. Friday, we decorated for Christmas. Yesterday, we finished preparing our patio for winter. Today, we’re meeting friends for dinner. Lovely connections with people all around. Such connections are…
Read MoreThanksgiving, Old Photos, and Memoir
At the start of this Thanksgiving week, I remember the family dinners of my childhood. As long as she was able, my grandmother Read hosted. She lived in a modest frame house cattycornered from the Berryville Store in southeastern Illinois. At one time, she and my grandfather had managed that general store, but he died…
Read MoreSay the Secret Things: Memoir and Power
In October, I taught a two-day workshop at a local public library. Our focus was on writing about moments from our pasts that still haunt us in some way. We wrote about things that hurt us, that shamed us, that left us with guilt and regret. Along the way, we also revisited moments of joy…
Read MoreJust Give It to Me: Clarity in Fiction
Without intending to, we sometimes withhold important information about the premise of our narratives in our attempts to be mysterious. The problem with such a strategy is it can lead to confusion. Readers can spend too much time trying to figure out the context of the story. As a result, their attention is kept from…
Read MoreShhh!: The Writer and Silence
Each Saturday, whenever the weather permits, Cathy and I enjoy a picnic at our local metro park. We have a spot away from the beaten path, and we like relaxing there after the stresses of the work week. We start in the spring, once it’s warm enough, and we keep going until autumn cools enough…
Read MoreThe Nuanced Lives of Strangers
Yesterday, Cathy wanted to go shopping, so I ended up on a bench outside the fitting rooms at Macy’s. At one point, an elderly gentleman ushered his wife to those fitting rooms. She appeared to be a bit confused about where she was to go, and the gentleman said, “To your left.” She started to…
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