Hitchcock's McGuffin

According to a story in Harper's Magazine by Art Spiegelman, Alfred Hitchcock called a plot device, which has nothing to do with the story yet to be told, a McGuffin. The purpose of a McGuffin is just to ignite the telling of the story.

I tried to think of an example of this (I thought about it for about 20 seconds) and I couldn't come up with one. Rather than expend any more brain energy, quite naturally, I Googled an image of Alfred Hitchcock. One of the pictures was of Hitchcock standing next to a suggestion box holding a large, sturdy noose. He has one hand above the knotted noose and the other on the loop of the noose.

Now I see that this picture of Hitchcock could itself be a McGuffin and that a McGuffin is also much like a writing prompt. (I referred to a writing prompt in a previous blog.) It could be used in various genres. For example,

Romance: She noticed the strength of his sinewy hands holding the noose in a way she never had when he was cleaning her septic system. The kindness in Reuben's eyes let her know that he was there to save her from the evil dental hygienist who had only been after the inheritance from her dead husband. She stepped into his arms and the noose draped around their bodies creating a bond that would hold them until death do they part. It was then that she learned that her little brother had joined a circus and her parents, on their deathbeds, pleaded with her to find the boy and bring him back to visit their graves.

Spy thriller: Little did Ingor Spitowski know that Filmore had known her about the key that she carried in her shoe that opened the door leading to the President's vault at the end of the tunnel. Filmore had tempted her to the roof with promises of hemp by-products. But he had to keep her alive, wriggling in the noose, until she told him where she had hidden her left shoe, a pump previously worn by Barbara Walters on the View. Once Barbara's shoe was recovered, the interview with Putin began with questions about his chest hair exposed during his recent vacation at the beach.

Horror: too obvious

Anyway, I like the idea of using images as prompts. I also like using Google as a substitute for original thinking. Who doesn't?

Writing Prompts

Some writers, or so the magazines for writers tell us, use writing prompts in order to loosen up the nuts, grease the wheels, and jumpstart the creative engine that is responsible for selecting a few words from a lifetime accumulation of blah blah blah and put it on white paper. The writing prompt might be "Write a story about a priest, a rabbi, and a minister that walked into a strip club." So once it is written, what happens to the story ? It could be filed away until there is a demand for religious erotica. It could be folded into a thong-shaped cross. (Actually, isn't a thong already in the shape of a cross?) Most likely, it is tossed into a wastebasket, but how inspirational is that to begin each morning trashing one's hard work?

On the other hand, there is a spiritual truth involved. The response to the writing prompt is an idea that has been cast into the ooze of the universe thereby creating a ripple in the ooze. The movement of molecules in the ooze's ripple creates heat, in other words, energy which loosens nuts, greases wheels, and jumpstarts the creative engine. Ideas are manifested as keystrokes and keystrokes cast out ideas creating more ripples of ooze. The universe is forever and irrevocably changed by a few words about a priest, a rabbi, and a minister in a strip club.

Maybe it's not such a bad idea after all. So, there was this priest....

A Friendly Report

I want to talk about a friend. We both work at a...hmmm...school.



Depending on what I say about her, my comments might be construed as gossip, gross exaggerations, backbiting, belittling, praising, or promoting. Some might say I am just sharing news or reporting. Others might say I am deflecting attention from those many risque rumors about myself (I wish!) or that since I'm so hopelessly boring (aw, smack!), I can only say what is going on in the lives of others. If the previous statement is a good indication (which it is), whatever it is that I have to say about my friend, I'm going to reference it to myself.



What I most enjoy about this friend is that she is not me. In many ways, we are very different and I like that about her. First, her world is larger than mine; she makes it so by reaching beyond the immediate locale and the present moment in what she says, does and how she thinks (if I can presume to get into her head.) She is more well-read than I am; this doesn't refer to an ingestion of classics, but to the fact that she reads what she likes and when she likes.



Second, she can pull off being a perfectly sane and stable rebel; this state of mind seems oxymoronic or, at least, unusual. But she pulls it off, sliding through wispy and yet sure-footed in her own way daring others to trifle with her while dodging everything that would rattle a less stable person. Like my friend, I do rebel, but usually I am slapped down for my efforts. Of course, then I get back up just to see if the same thing happens a second time...or fourth, sixth, or whatever.


Third, she is a real blogger. I am a blogger-wannabe; as with many things, I am a wannabe. I wouldn't have blogged this much if not for her encouragement. I wouldn't have known how to get started. So it's thanks to JSK that I blog (for better or worse.) You should check out her blog, in fact. Go to http://sceamingyawndog.blogspot.com/ to read what a worldly, sane rebel has to say. Tell her I sent you.

Lost July

Where did July go?

There never again will be a July, 2007 and it might be just as well.

Fortunately, there were no tragedies in my immediate family, but it did seem that we were painfully aware and often painfully empathetic towards those who did suffer.

July should have been a month during which families laugh, play, rest and re-create themselves in a good way. For too many, the families were downsized by some calamity and they were forced to re-create their existence without a child, without a brother or sister. Here I speak of local issues without even addressing the sadness in Iraq or Afghanistan or other areas of the world where calamities are a daily occurrence.

August is burning gratitude into our skin and into our hearts. The sting of mosquitoes reminds us that we are vulnerable and yet largely unaffected by our surroundings. My garden is thick with weeds but the unintended flowers on the choking vines of the Morning Glory reveal a humble beauty in the midst of neglect.

It is cliche but honest to mention that this summer will come and go with the next one to follow regardless what our intentions, oversights, and actions might yield. We believe that the space that we fill has importance and consequences and that others will remember. Yet, our impact on this world is only a whisper that blows away in the next warm breeze.

I was reminded of this when a customer in my daughter's consignment shop mentioned that she had heard that a person is remembered for no longer than three generations. The woman in a heavy Southern accent said, "I just can't believe that folks won't remember me." Then as she left the shop, she shouted to us, "Now, don't you ever forget me; don't you forget ______."

Sadly, I've forgotten her name.

July Jitterbug

Anxiety is a friendlier condition than depression...it just drops by unexpectedly, sometimes introduces shadowy friends that sit passively but unpredictably in the corner of the room.

Jest a-fusing

June is nearly over which means this year is half over. What have I accomplished in the past six months? Is there really any point to that question?

Here is another of my artsy-fartsy projects. This was one of my favorites and it sold. At least I can visit the guys while I'm here. It's fabric images and strips fused onto burlap.

This summer has become much busier than I had envisioned. There's very little time for fusing; even less time for being confused. Maybe there's just less time to realize that I'm confused.

I'll give that some more thought in the fall when I, again, have time to be confused and to know it.

Creative Channel vs. Channel Catfish

Here is where my creativity has been channeled over the last few months.

No, it's not what you are thinking. I don't personally know these guys but I wouldn't turn down the chance to know them, Biblically or otherwise. Of course, that would just be for the sake of research for something interesting to write about...remember I'm a woman writing whorishly, not a whorish woman writing. Actually, I paid for them (I would have to, wouldn't I); they arrived at my front door in a brown envelope. Then I quilted a frame around each one.

I made these and several other wall hangings for an art show to benefit the Greater Champaign AIDS Project. Before you assume I am a philantropist, I should add that I had the benefit of 50% of the proceeds and GCAP received the other half. I really appreciate my friends that introduced me to this project and saw to it that I went through with it, actually getting my contribution in on time.

The two shirtless, sexy cowboys shown above both sold! Imagine that! (Can you say Brokeback Mountain?)

I'll add a few more with future posts...especially the ones that did sell so that I have an opportunity to see them again.

As for catfish, the weather is warm and the fish are calling our names. My grandsons and I will be on the muddy banks several times, I'm sure. There is no such thing as failure in fishing which is what makes it such a pleasure.

The soil for my garden is nearly ready for planting. I'm at this much later than last year. That might be because last year was my first garden in several years so I was really anxious to get out there and dig in. This year, the memory of how much work is involved in gardening is a little fresher.

So many creative pursuits, so little time. Speaking of which, I got things to go and places to do (you know what I mean)...