Hemingway and the Art of Dialogue


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Hemingway and the Art of Dialogue

Along with his awards and persona, Hemingway is also famous for his literary style, particularly his approach to dialogue. Complementing the PBS Hemingway documentary by Ken Burns and the corresponding KCTS 9 virtual event Hemingway: Misogynistic or Misunderstood? this course will examine the characteristics of Hemingway’s dialogue in stories like “Hills Like White Elephants” and beyond. In addition, we’ll explore a few techniques and methodologies for strengthening the dialogue in our own works as well.

Short Story

The Muffin Lady

A childhood story from
Lynette Jenjen Douglass


The years between four and seven were some of my favorite years of growing up!

We lived in a neighborhood of middle-aged and elderly people. I had another pair of grandparents, Grandma and Grandpa Hoppie, and there was another aunt, my favorite person in all the world, Aunt Lizzie!

I really liked Lizzie because she not only made the most delicious muffins, and she had a black and white cat named Buster. She also let me help her do things, like make muffins and work in her backyard.

There was one day that I spent with her that is never to forget. Summer had just begun and all the flowers were beginning to bloom. There were daffodils. purple crocuses and tulips, alongside a bunch of weeds. This was the day I learned what weeds looked like and why my dad pulled them up and threw them in the garbage! These were ugly looking and from that day on, I was more than eager to help in Lizzie’s as well as our home garden!

Most importantly, I discovered the joy of being needed and able to actually do something constructive. I felt really important that day and proud to be able to do something that needed to be done!

After we pulled most of the weeds in Lizzie’s backyard, she rewarded me with a plate of her yummiest muffins, applesauce and pecans. They tasted so good with a glass of cold milk and it was definitely time for a nap!

I lay on her soft couch and she put a blanket over me! Her soft and perry black cat crawled beside me and I will forever treasure the fresh scent of green grass, the wonderful smell of fresh flowers, the taste of Lizzie’s applesauce muffins, and the warmth and purring of a loving black cat!


Some music for peeps

I love this Simon and Garfunkel song. Music is often inspiring to me. The score to Alfred Hitchcock‘s film North by Northwest helped me write what was supposed to be a short story for a college writing class. It ended up on the path to being a novel. The composer, Bernard Herrmann, was a pioneering genius with quirky, eccentric musical tastes, much like the fantastic Ennio Morricone. That novel is one of my unfinished projects, which I should resurrect and complete. Wish me luck.


Ode to My Mom

Ode to My Mom
Mother’s Day, May 10, 2020
By Holly Jacobson

You were not a Kool-Aid mom.
No grape jelly. No white bread.
Ugly peanut butter, ugly brown apple butter.
I was a lunch room outcast.
And now I know.
You were right.

Hanging like a sunset, a mosquito aquarium
Heavy orchard air.
And those bushels. We filled them heavy,
sneaking bites.
Sweet juice running down my chin, spilling on my flower printed dress.
Better than that was waiting at home.
Taking turns on the hand cranked ice cream maker.
I was always given the first few cranks.
The burden heavier with each turn.
Then “the men” took over.

And at the end, I could lick the paddle.
Summer days at the farm.
Where the daily anxiety of my eyes melted into pure joy.
The ritual of it all.

All my happiest childhood memories are food memories.
That was always our time together.
The drive in for rootbeer floats.
There is no substitute for a frosted mug.
You, barely out of high school.
Should have been recently groomed at the Sorority like your parents planned.
But no, you were with me, my dimpled hand holding the baby frosted mug.
Our time tasted sweet.

Let’s not go back to school.
This was a trip to the drugstore.
Grilled cheese and a cherry limeade for me.
You – a patty melt and a coke.
Oh how I love a counter lunch.
With a box of Russel Stover Turtles to go.
Just you and me.
Happy with our secret.

I think Doctor Sam was downtown.
Every check-up seemed to end at Kaiser’s ice cream parlor.
It was a true parlor.
Tile floors.
Tinned ceilings, tall as trees.

A few fans at the top whirling rhythm.
And a requisite screen door that creaked, jingled, and slammed.
Every time, you ordered pistachio.
Seemed exotic for Oklahoma City in the late 1960s
I must have ordered peach.
Always afraid to stray from the glory of summer.
Always afraid.



Samuel Corales is a teaching artist from New York City. After earning his BFA, Samuel moved to Tacoma.
Samuel Corales is a teaching artist from New York City. After earning his BFA, Samuel moved to Tacoma.

“As a writer, I look to expand my range. Poetry has always been challenging and I was excited to start the Spoken Word class through PWA. The teaching artist, Samuel, had a way to aid your writing that I haven’t experienced before. This was the result.”
— Michelle M.

In times good and bad,
In this life I’ve had
I’ve learned fast
The double edged sword of nothing lasts.
I’ve learned love is easy and trust is hard.
So I’m no longer looking for the one to love but to trust without guard.
I’ve learned too that some try to malign and destroy what they don’t understand,
They push and shove.

You made bad life choices,
Your violence and anger boisterous.
I made sacrifices,
Did the right thing.
Your anger intensifies.
All the lies, welts, and bruises constituted love from you.
Still, I rose. Stood tall and in time grew
Into my own.
Found the light far from home.
My existence justified.

Finally I look back.
I see your lack
And forgive you.
Let me say it again.
I forgive you.
And with those words the shackles of consequences fell, enlightening me.
With heartfelt forgiveness, I set us free.
Now I hear home calling to me.
Time for my life to begin.

Step inside my mind
That never unwinds.
Questions abound.
Answers sought and
Sometimes found.
Who, what, where, when, how, and why, Truths and lies.
It’s not an interrogation
It’s a liberation, man.

Light enshrouded by darkness,
Truth and knowledge starkest
Under the naked light of justice.
It’s here I shine,
A life of substance.
In the silence of my minds ruminations,
Truths and lies just another confirmation
That here, in the light of truth I belong,
The true essence of the Devine.

Solid oak floors well worn
From footfalls pacing night to morn.
All you see
Is the exterior
Instead of me.
Plan and drab. Sturdy and strong. Won’t fall down.
And look, no crown.
But your blind if that’s all you see
You’re not the superior.

What truly matters lies within.
Deep oceans to swim.
Forests wild and untamed,
But a paradox living
among settled plains.
In the expanse of silence and light I stand,
In splendors grand.
My complexities rest upon hills unadorned
And Celtic lochs.

I started life with a weak foundation.
My solace found in education.
Love given like a glass half empty.
Had to rely on myself,
A lone entity.
So I wrapped myself in the comfort of words and learned their power.
I no longer cower.
I made strong what was weak and used my creativity to speak,
And freed myself.