I was talking to Sandy Resis’s writing class today at Chemeketa Community College about what it is like to write about Salem. Specifically, she was interested in having me talk about what it is like to conceive and write the column each month, and to write first sentences that matter – something I’ve touched on in my column before.
The students are writing their own “Salem Stories,” something like what I do here, but from their own perspectives. I’m pretty jazzed about reading them when they get turned in next week.
At one point during my talk, I mentioned that I don’t like to see the column as the Emily Grosvenor show — that I’m paranoid about being a navel-gazer and that I want to write something about Salem, for Salem, in every issue.
“But why was the last one about the clothing swap at your house?” someone asked.
Good question. At some point it struck me that there was a disconnect between how that piece presented itself and how I wrote it. And lo and behold — Eureka! — a paragraph had been cut from the story because of space constraints in the paper issue (it appears in full online here). That happens sometimes — just part of being a writer who gets edited.
Here’s what got cut:
Salem, always a place that delivers great second-hand finds, is experiencing its own kind of paradoxical vintage fashion recession. While stores such as Value Village and Goodwill have reported steady sales, the number of clothes being dropped off at Salem locations begins to dwindle as the weather gets colder. Though the drive to buy used is through the roof, the community’s motivation to donate their old things falls off just when people might need it most.
So, Salem, here’s the deal. Fight the paradox. Donations drop off right when people need them most. throw a party. Get rid of your old stuff. That’s all.
And for God’s sake, don’t look at me looking at my navel. At this point it’s pretty much popping out of my stomach like a Turkey thermometer and really isn’t that interesting anyway.
