Snow, Snow, Snow!

Last night another snowstorm blew into my area. As I watched the snow swirl across the courtyard, it reminded me of something post-apocalyptic, something from a bad science fiction film. I wanted to yell, "Enough already! Bring me spring time and flowers." Even in the novel I'm currently writing, snow brings sadness and disaster. Two young sisters twirl and try to catch snowflakes on their tongues, shouting out different flavors they imagine the snowflakes taste like. Their reverie is interrupted by a grumpy father who tells them they are being silly. Later the older sister slashes her wrists, and as she is carried to an ambulance, one sister observes drops of blood in the snow.

Snow didn't always conjure up such negative images for me. I have some wonderful snow memories. Even though it's been almost three years and two moves since my dog died, I still expect him to bowl me over when I go to the door and announce, "It's snowing!" I remember one time I landed in the emergency room after playing in the snow with Shadow. I was shoveling the walk and tossing snowballs to him. He'd jump up in the air, catch the snowballs and chomp, chomp. I bent over to make another snowball when he head-butted me. He knocked me down. But I got up and continued shoveling and continued tossing him snowballs. Later I discovered I was bleeding, that I had a gash under my eye. I would spend a few hours in the emergency room getting stitches and a tetanus shot. The memory always makes me smile. Another time my kids and I spent several hours walking all over town as the snow fell. We chased each other, throwing snowballs, white-washing each other. We laughed so much that day. The snow was falling heavily, and we kept walking, barely cognizant of the cold. Hours later, we returned home wet from the snow and drank hot chocolate.

I guess it's age, or maybe I'm just tired of all the snow we've had so far this year, that I noticed my perspective has changed. I used to get excited whenever it snowed. I liked to sit on my porch and watch it fall, sprinkling the trees like powdered sugar. I couldn't wait to go out in the snow. Now I cocoon myself in an afghan and only go out if it's absolutely necessary.

What about you? How do you feel about snow? What are your memories about snow? Set your timer for fifteen minutes and freewrite about snow. Remember, no stopping to edit. Just write...

Three-Minute Fiction

My dad, a talented photographer, always told me that a photograph should tell a story, evoke some type of mood. Sadly, I never mastered the art of photography. I am still trying to figure out what button to press to capture a photo. The result hasn't been very good, but still, I try. I do like to use photos for writing prompts. If the photographer has been successful, the photo evokes some type of reaction. The image might spark another image or a memory or an emotion. In the past, I've recommending looking through old photo albums. Choose several photos and do a fifteen-minute freewrite on each. Flip through magazines that are rich with photos and choose one to do a freewrite. It doesn't have to lead to a larger work or anything at all. The importance is that you've written something. Don't throw it away. Tuck it in your notebook. Maybe someday down the road, when you're flipping through your notebooks, it'll lead to something else. If it doesn't, that's okay, too.

Speaking of photographs...NPR is sponsoring round three of their Three-Minute Fiction contest. This time around, they're giving you a photo on which to base a 600 word story. The contest is free to enter, and you can enter online. Here are the links:
Three-Minute Fiction Round Three

Official Rules: Three-Minute Fiction Round Three

Good luck and keep writing!

NaNoWriMo

NaNoWriMo started a few days ago. I won't be participating, as I'm rehashing a novel I've been working on, and I'm not ready to start another project from scratch. But I am setting a goal to complete 50,000 words on it by the end of the month.

With NaNoWriMo's booming popularity, several companies have been offering various freebies and incentives. CreateSpace is offering a free proof copy of any winner's book. Instructions can be found at their website. Scrivener offers a free trial of their writing software. The NanoWriMo site has some great resources. If you are participating this year, let me know how you're doing. Keep me posted, and keep writing!

Moments of Agony

This past week I spent 24 hours in the emergency room for a mysterious pain that had me doubled over and rendered non-functional. It made me delirious, and it got to the point where if the doctors couldn’t find and fix the source, I wanted to die. When you have pain like that for 3 days, it chisels away at everything, including your will to live. I eventually got through it (obviously, because I’m writing this blog entry today) as I have gotten through other moments of agony. There’s the agony of childbirth. It’s one of the worst pains, but once you get through it you get to hold your perfect, beautiful baby. There’s the agony associated with illness, like the time I had pulmonary emboli, which caused my right lower lobe of my lungs to collapse. That was worse than the pains I experienced in childbirth, in my opinion. Then there are the agonies not associated with illness but still render you non-functional. Deaths of loved ones. The realization your marriage is over. The loss of a child. There’s the agony of waiting. Waiting for answers. Waiting for something to pass. We handle our agonies in different ways. Sometimes we manage to get through it. Sometimes we get through it, but it’s not something that goes away.

Think about the moments of agony in your life. What situations or problems made you feel so bad that you didn’t think you could get through it? What did you do? When doing your freewrite, avoid adjectives like “overwhelming” and “painful.” Be specific. State what was overwhelming and painful. If it helps, leave your emotions out of it and describe it using only facts. Use who, what, where, why and how. Once you get it all down, you can insert your impressions and feelings. What is your perspective on it now? If you are still dealing with it, describe how. This may be a difficult exercise. You might want to start by setting your timer for 5 minutes. It may take several freewrites to get it all down. The important thing is to get it all down. Push through the pain and keep writing…

Everyone Has an Opinion

Each week our local talk radio show has a “Gripe Friday.” There is no predetermined topic or format. Listeners call in and gripe about whatever is on their minds. One calls in about tractor trailer trucks clogging the parking lots to shopping centers. Another calls in about the lack of customer service at restaurants. Someone complains about coverage on cable news, the war in Iraq. The calls have a snowball effect. The phone lines become clogged with listeners waiting to add their two cents. The responses range from, “That happened to me, too,” “I agree,” to passionate opposite opinions. The result is always entertaining. Sometimes my own blood pressure goes up.

Everyone has an opinion. It’s just that some of us are noisier than others. Some clam up and keep their opinions to themselves. (I’m not one of them.) Others begin letter writing campaigns or make phone calls. We can shout about those things to whomever will listen. Or at no one. We can write a letter to the editor of the newspaper or dash off an email to the producers of an offending television show. Or we can do nothing. It’s our choice.

How many times have you shouted at the television or at something you’ve read? What has irritated you lately? What are your pet peeves? Make a list of these things. Think about the times you disagreed with someone or spoke passionately about an issue. When I say issue, it doesn’t necessarily mean politically or socially motivated. Interpret it in any way you want. If you want, skip the list and go right to the freewrite. Write about whatever is rubbing you the wrong way, raising your blood pressure, making you swear. Get it all out. When you’re finished, take a deep breath and pat yourself on the back. What you do with your freewrite is your choice.

“Sometimes I am asked, ‘Is it true you should write what you know about?’ I say, ‘No, write what you care about.’ If you don’t know, you’ll find out. But if you don’t care, why should anyone else?”
~ Anne Perry

The Second Life Writers' Club

The Second Life Writers' Club

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What I Didn't Do On My Summer Vacation

It’s Labor Day weekend, and even though summer doesn’t officially end until later this month, people are having their final summer picnics and closing their pools until next season. Around here, the kids have already completed their first week of school. Where did the summer go? While I love autumn and football games, I’m sorry to see the summer end. It seemed to go by in a blink. I didn’t get to do what I had hoped or had planned to do.

I didn’t get to the beach as I had hoped. I heard about others’ beach trips, and I watched my co-workers and neighbors getting tanner. I didn’t plant any flower boxes. I didn’t quit smoking. I didn’t finish my novel. I didn’t read all the books I ordered from the book catalogues that kept coming in the mail. My summer sounds so boring and bleak. But even though I spent most of the summer working, there were some lovely moments. Originally for this week’s exercise I was going to ask you to do a twist on the Natalie Goldberg freewrite “What I did on my summer vacation,” and change it to “What I didn’t do…” But that sounds so negative and full of regret. There’s enough negativity around us. Instead, I want us to continue focusing on the positive, on hope.

I didn’t get to do a lot of things I had hoped, but for the most part, I had a great summer. My favorite memory is of the time my daughter and I went to the county fair. We walked through the rows of farm animals. We watched baby chicks hatching. She had her picture taken with a cow. We watched a live elephant show and went to the petting zoo. We fed the baby goats and a llama spit on her. I couldn’t convince her to ride a camel. When a guy in one of the booths approached us, he asked if we were sisters. We told him we were cousins transplanted from Pittsburgh. Daisy and Lola. I told him a story about how Daisy’s mom was an F. Scott Fitzgerald aficionado and named her after the Daisy in The Great Gatsby. You think that would have scared him away, but instead, he asked us for our number. We gave him the number to the Rejection Hotline. We ate traditional fair food and listened to the live bands. The air was filled with the smell of frying funnel cakes and French fries (the vendor called them Freedom fries, and I went into a rant about how French fries have nothing to do with France). From a distance we watched the dust clouds and heard the roaring engines of the tractor pull. We got caught in a downpour and ran through the rain, laughing. Mostly from that day I remember we laughed a lot.

For this week’s freewrite, write about your favorite summer memory. It doesn’t have to be from this most recent summer. Start your freewrite with, “When I think about summer…”Set your timer for 15 minutes and write without stopping, without censoring yourself.

Mrs. Beasley

One winter afternoon when I was around 4 or 5, I looked out our picture window. “Gramma’s here! And she brought presents!” After she had shed her coat and scarf, Gramma laid one of the wrapped packages on my lap. Inside was the blue and white rag doll, Mrs. Beasley, made popular by the TV series, “Family Affair.” The doll was the favorite toy of the little girl, Burry. Mrs. Beasley was her security blanket and friend, and she became mine as well.

My mother said she thought the doll was ugly. Mrs. Beasley had yellow hair and had a yellow and white polka dotted skirt and legs. She wore rectangular spectacles. She was a talking doll. When you pulled her string, Mrs. Beasley said, “Want to hear a secret? I know one.” My mother might have thought she was an ugly doll, but I grew attached to Mrs. Beasley immediately.

My sister and I spent hours playing with our dolls. She had a collection of beautiful baby dolls with silky curls and eyes that opened and closed. Sometimes she’d let me put one of the embroidered, crinoline dresses on Mrs. Beasley. I’d also take off her glasses so she looked more like a baby and less “ugly.”

Mrs. Beasley was a source of comfort for me. When I was not playing with her, she had a prominent spot in the center of my bed and propped up by pillows. I took her along on camping trips and on visits to Gramma. She was who I reached for when I felt like crying, or when I couldn’t sleep.

I remember one time before my mother left us, she grabbed Mrs. Beasley off my bed and threatened to cut her to bits with the shears she had taken from my father’s pattern table. I pleaded and screamed and cried until I collapsed on the floor. My mother laughed, dropped Mrs. Beasley on me and left the room.

We had survived my mother’s wrath. If Mrs. Beasley had been capable of real feelings (which I believed for years) she was as relieved as I was. Mrs. Beasley saw me through my parents’ divorce, my teen angst and breakups. Even when I was in college, I still sometimes hugged her and cried. She retained her spot on my bed when I moved into my first apartment. My roommate thought I was odd.

Eventually I got married, and when I moved into my marital abode, Mrs. Beasley got packed into a box for storage. I hoped one day when I had my own daughter, she would enjoy Mrs. Beasley as much as I had. When the kids were small, I recovered her from storage. I had to sew on one of her arms. One of the cats later chewed off one of her hands. My daughter didn’t want to play with Mrs. Beasley. I think she was scared of her. I pulled on the string to hear, “Want to hear a secret? I know one.” What came out was something garbled and creepy, like something you’d hear in a horror movie. Mrs. Beasley got moved from a shelf to the bottom of the toy box along with broken Lego blocks. I don’t know when—maybe I’m blocking it out—I finally let her go and put her in a box with other broken or mismatched toys we put on the curb for Spring cleanup. All these years later I feel guilty and sad about it. Mrs. Beasley was more than just a doll to me.

Think about your favorite childhood toys or something you became attached to. Describe it using all senses. Who gave it to you? Why was it your favorite? Set your timer for fifteen minutes and freewrite without stopping. Feel free to share your memories here…

Significant Objects

Authors Rob Walker (Buying In) and Joshua Glenn (Taking Things Seriously) started a project and “experiment” called Significant Objects. In their own works they examined how many of us “whether we realize it or not, invest inanimate objects with significance.” They thought it would be “both interesting and fun to set up an experiment in which significance was artificially cooked up under controlled conditions and applied to insignificant objects.”

How the project/experiment works is this: The curators purchase objects found at thrift stores or garage sales. Some objects featured are a Sanka ashtray, a nutcracker with troll hair (or something else), and a chili cat figurine. A writer is paired with the object and the writer creates a fictional story about it. The (now) significant object is listed for sale on eBay along with the story. The winning bidder receives the significant object as well as a printout of the author’s story. The author does receive net proceeds from the sale, and the author does retain all rights.

Last weekend my daughter and I visited some antique shops. We love spending hours picking through jewelry and tchotchkes. I like trying to imagine who once owned a ring or odd figurine. It’s in my nature. We left with a sterling silver ring with two blossoms on the band and a book about gnomes. I wonder if the ring was given to a teenage daughter by her mother. The ring is small, the size a child would wear. The gnome book is a gift for a friend who has an obsession about gnomes.

I wear a ring I found in a thrift shop a year ago. It was an emerald cut greenish-grey stone set on a plain gold band. It reminded me of a ring my grandmother wore when she went to church. The ring was dingy and in need of polishing. It only cost a dollar. I cleaned it up and I wear it almost all the time. I get a lot of compliments on it. Sometimes I’m tempted to make up a family story about it instead of saying that I found it in a thrift shop.

All of us have things we have an attachment to. Maybe it’s an odd-looking figurine someone gave us as a gift, or something we picked up because it made us smile, or could not leave behind because it was so ugly because we couldn’t bear the thought of it sitting on a shelf, unbought, unwanted. Look around your own home. Choose an object. Pick it up. Spend fifteen minutes freewriting about it. What is the story behind it? There’s a reason why you keep it, and there’s a reason why you’ve given its place on a bookshelf, desk, or kitchen counter. If you don’t know, make it up. Feel free to share your stories here.

What I've Left Behind

It’s been a few months since I’ve moved, and I think I’ve finally settled in, finally feel like it’s home. (The cats seem less traumatized and are settling well, too.) But some days I make myself crazy trying to find things, wondering if it’s something else I’ve left behind. Just this morning, I wanted to look up something in a book, but for the life of me, I couldn’t find it. I tore through piles of books I have scattered throughout my home. No luck. Did I have it at my last residence? Yes. So I know it’s not in storage in my ex’s house. Have I picked up the book since I’ve moved? Yes. So I know it’s not in the boxes of books I have stashed in my closets. When was the last time I read it? I couldn’t remember. Did I take it to work? Is it in my car? Did I throw it in a drawer? I was wasting too much time trying to find it. Time to move on and do something constructive.

Back in 1937, when the original Sloppy Joe’s Bar moved from 268 Greene Street to its current location on Greene and Duval Streets, patrons picked up their glasses and whatever fixtures the could grab and walked down the street to the new location. Business was not disrupted and continued with hardly a blink of an eye. Moving could not be any easier.

Moving is never easy, but the best part is starting with a clean slate, starting over. Finally having a place of my own, to arrange things the way I want to, no one to second guess why I’m doing this or that. I feel like I’ve taken back control I’ve lost over the years. Yes, I like that.

But then I have days I when I discover something I’ve left behind. It’s usually something insignificant like my favorite paring knife, the potato masher, some other kitchen gadget. All that is replaceable. Sometimes I think about the other things I’ve left behind, not replaceable. My childhood home. Before that, being physically a part of my kids’ lives. Leaving was a difficult but necessary decision, and a day doesn’t go by that I don’t feel guilt or heartbreak. We stay in touch via text and phone and email, but I miss the daily closeness and routine. I miss not being able to just reach out and hug my daughter when she’s had a bad day at school, or when she’s sad because the boy she likes dropped her from his MySpace friends list. Or just grabbing and hugging them for no reason at all. I miss the clatter in the kitchen and the clutter and noise that comes with a house full of teenagers. I even miss the nagging about homework, computer time or laundry. I’m missing the arguments about who gets to use the car or whether the things they’re doing to fill their time will enhance their college applications. I hope someday they’ll understand. Meantime I let them know as often as I can that I love them, I have and always will, no matter what.

For your freewrite this week, write about the things or people you’ve left behind. Set your timer for 15 minutes. Don’t stop and don’t censor yourself. Take a deep breath and go deep…

Time and Balance

I’m discouraged today. After a burst of writing energy over the last couple weeks, I’ve hit a block. It’s not Writer’s Block. I’ve had a flurry of ideas which is evident by all the folders and tablets containing various stages of stories and articles on my desk, on the floor, on my diningroom table. What has discouraged me is time—the lack of it and how to balance the time I have. I’m grateful for this unending flow of writing ideas. A lot of writers I know complain about not having enough. But how to manage it all?

This week I think I’ve set unattainable goals and unrealistic deadlines. I have a growing to-do list and not enough time to accomplish it all. That’s only my writing to-do list. I haven’t even mentioned how I’ve been neglecting the housework, neglecting my loved ones, my friends, my cats. I haven’t turned on my phone yet today. I’ve been doing nothing but writing all day, but I feel like I’ve accomplished nothing, that I’ve been spinning my wheels.

I was working on an article I’ve been excited about getting to all week. It started with writing one article about Ernest Hemingway, one of my favorite authors, and before I knew it, I was outlining one topic after another. The thing with Hemingway just snowballed. The more I researched him, the more I wanted to learn about him, the more I wanted to write about him. It’s almost become an obsession. I want to know about his life, his loves, his cats, how he wrote, so I can learn more from him. It has me sidetracked. I haven’t written a word of fiction for I-don’t-know-how-long. My novel-in-progress has sat in the same spot for weeks. Fiction has been my first love when it comes to writing. Someday I’d like to make a living doing nothing but churn out novel after novel. Today I kidded myself thinking I could spend part of my day working on articles and set aside a block of time to work on my novel. It’s hard for me to shift into fiction writing mode once I’ve been in non-fiction mode. How do you switch off one mode to focus on another? How do you find a balance and make enough time?

Normally I can find some encouragement or some writing advice, but today, I’ve dug deep down and came up with nothing. I don’t have an answer for this. I need to hear what works for you. For now, I’m going to walk away from my desk, breathe and call my daughter.

This week your freewriting exercise is to write about “time.” Set your timer for 15 minutes and write whatever comes to mind…

What My Fathers Taught Me

It’s been a year since my last blog entry, a year of many life-changing events. Being my first entry for my return to the blogosphere, I didn’t want to write about Father’s Day. But maybe this is a good place to start.

In the past year I’ve lost both my fathers. My own father has been in a nursing home since last year. His dementia has progressed rapidly, so much that he only remembers me sometimes. It has affected his ability to walk as well. Two years ago he was still hiking and dancing. Now he shuffles with a walker and needs assistance to carry out the most basic daily activities like feeding himself and bathing. Occasionally he can draw recognizable figures of cats and airplanes on his sketchpad. Those moments have become fewer and far between, as my visits to him have as well. It’s not that I don’t carry a lot of guilt for it.

This past March I lost my other father. He was my ex-father-in-law but the one I called “Dad.” I was blessed to have him a part of my life for almost twenty years. I’m still trying to look at it as a blessing instead of a loss. He would not have wanted me to dwell on the loss.

Lately I’ve been thinking about the things I’ve learned from both my fathers.

From my own father what comes to mind first is to never say anything you may regret…including “I love you.” I was around sixteen when I first got that lesson. He caught me writing “Love, Marie” on a card I was planning to give to my high school sweetheart. Okay, I was sixteen, and what did I know about love then?

My father never told me he loved me. Well, there was one time, which I’ll get to later. I remember more than once during my childhood before my mother left us, my mother asking in sign language, “You don’t love me.” Sometimes she’d ask, “Do you love me?” He’d sign back, “Of course I do.” I can’t remember if he ever said the words, “I love you,” but at five years old, our perceptions can be flawed. Once when I was cleaning out my desk, I found a stack of birthday cards he had given me over the years. They were signed simply, “Daddy.” When I had my own family and my bitterness and resentment toward him had cooled off, I’d end our visits with a hug and “I love you, Daddy.” He always responded with a pat on my shoulder and, “Yup. Okay.” A few months ago, at the end of one of my last visits at the nursing home he did respond, “I love you, too.”

What I learned from my father-in-law, “Dad,” was that love is unconditional, unwavering. It was evident in his devotion to his wife and family. At first it took me a while to learn and understand this. Sometimes at family gatherings the lot of us would get into heated discussions. We’d be shouting over each other our opinions and disagreements. An outsider might have thought we didn’t like each other, maybe even hate each other. But at the end of the day, we’d take turns hugging each other and say, “I love you.” And as I’d get into my car, I knew it.

At the reception after his memorial service, friends and family took turns sharing memories of him. There was one that has stuck with me. Dad and Mom were yelling at each other in the kitchen. She was trying to finish preparations for one of her elaborate meals. Some such argument ensued over place settings or water pitchers. Both were red in the face and their blood pressures were palpable. Mom stormed out of the kitchen. Dad yelled, “Mary! Mary!” She had thrown up her hands and kept walking without looking back. He followed her into the next room, still shouting, “Mary!” Finally, she turned and stopped. He smiled and said, “Give me a kiss.” And they made up.

So these are the things I’ve learned from both my fathers. Now it’s your turn. Think about your own father or father figures. Start your freewrite with “These are the things my father taught me…” or something along those lines. Set your timer for fifteen minutes and write without stopping or censoring. Let go…breathe…write.

I would love to hear what lessons you’ve learned. Please feel free to post them.

The Rear Window

Alfred Hitchcock’s film, “The Rear Window” was about a photographer who was stranded in his house with a broken leg. He begins to watch his neighbors’ comings and goings through his telephoto lens. Then he witnesses a murder, but no one believes him. He enlists his friends’ help—and his beautiful girlfriend played by Grace Kelly—to prove his neighbor murdered his wife.

In Sinclair Lewis’ novel, Main Street, Mrs. Dr. Kennicott is a newbie in a small closeknit town. She feels she is an outsider under scrutiny as well as the town’s current curiosity. In one scene she overhears a group of boys and their observations of her from outside her living room window. One boy imitates her mannerisms and ridicules the way she tried to straighten a painting on her living room wall. In another scene while strolling through town, she observes her neighbors watching her from behind their curtains and shrubs. But were they watching her as much as she imagined? Her paranoia might have been a product of her sensitivity to being an outsider.

Many of my characters in my novel, Living in the City, were inspired by real-life neighbors (or compilations of them). A man who drove around the neighborhood in an ice cream truck and sold carnival toys and cotton candy up and down the alley was the inspiration for my character Junior, who called himself an entrepreneur. As the novel went on, this scrungy man who at first I didn’t like became a lovable, eccentric man I enjoyed spending time with.

What’s outside your window? Who’s coming and going? Who has lived in your neighbors’ houses? What conflicts do your neighbors have with themselves, their families, or each other? What are the neighbors are saying about each other? We can approach writing about our neighbors from various angles.

First write about what is going on outside your window from an objective point of view. Report what you see without editorializing. For instance, Mrs. Adams and her chubby daughters are planting marigolds around the mailbox. Chris, the 17-year-old boy bolts through the door and hops into the back of a waiting pick up truck with four other boys. One boy tosses out a beer can. The boys whoop and holler, the truck tires squeal, and Mrs. Adams runs after them, shouting and shaking a trowel. After you’ve written a page or so, ask questions regarding the scene you just reported. What is going on between the mother and her children? What will happen next? What are their individual conflicts? Freewrite from each of their points of view. Try exaggerating one of more character traits. Try this exercise at different times of the day and from different vantage points. If you can’t answer the questions to your original reportage, tuck the piece away for later. Another variation is to string the individual scenes together to form a longer story. Also, try this from the angle of the Sinclair Lewis scenes. Write what your character thinks her neighbors think of her. Or combine the variations. The variations are as limitless as your imagination.

Unlikely Friends

I recently finished a 5-week training class for my job. Including our patient instructor, there were twelve of us. We ranged in ages from 22 to 44 and came from various backgrounds. We instantly bonded, and each day was something to look forward to. The instructor and my new friends made work not seem like work at all. There were random moments when someone would break into song, and the rest of us would join in. We were a rambunctious bunch. I have a deep fondness for everyone I’ve met. Because of our various backgrounds, we may have never met, except maybe to discuss the attributes of avocadoes in our local produce department. We’ve stayed in touch through silly emails and by visiting each other at our respective cubicles, and we’re planning a picnic this coming weekend. To say it warms my heart every time I think of them seems so inadequate. I’ve been given a wonderful gift.

In a 1991 movie called “Married to It” three couples who at first glance seem to have nothing in common are thrown together. The first couple is a young professional couple from Iowa. The young husband is a stockbroker, and his wife is a school psychologist. The second couple is a pair of former hippies (love beads and all) who have two sons who attend the school where the young psychologist works. The third couple is a man working on his second marriage to a wealthy socialite. He has a 13-year-old daughter from his previous marriage. The three women meet at a school function and end up on the same committee. When they have their first meeting, there are long blocks of silence and tension in the air. With each consecutive meeting, these three couples find they have more to talk about, more in common. When the young stockbroker gets into trouble, and the man who’s been married a second time have problems, they discover the meaning of friendship. These unlikely friends support and trust each other.

For this exercise you’re going to create three unlikely friends (or couples) and throw them together in a situation. They don’t need to become friends, as in the movie, but they must have something in common. To begin, freewrite for ten or fifteen minutes to brainstorm ideas. If it’s easier, do a character sketch for your three characters. Each has a conflict. In one or two sentences, write their conflicts. Outline your story. How do they get together? What do they have in common? What are the dynamics of their relationship? Do they part friends, enemies, or indifferent?

Now write one scene for each of your characters showing them at home in the world. For instance, the young psychologist is settling into her closet-office. The socialite and her husband enjoy a lavish dinner. The former hippie couple are in their noisy home trying to have dinner with their two boys. Remember to use sensory details like sights, sounds, smells, etc.

For your next scene, create a situation which throws your characters together. Are they at a party? A school function? A gallery opening? The grocery store? Use description, dialogue and action. How do they treat one another? Do they resist each other? Become friends? What? Let your characters guide you. Use your imagination. If you want, continue writing the rest of the story. The genre is of your choosing. You may use any source to create your characters. Create them from scratch or use characters you’ve already created, or use characters from several published works. As always, have fun with it!

The Mother of Mother's Day

This year marks the 100th anniversary of the observance of Mother’s Day. While Anna Jarvis is credited with the observance, Julia Ward Howe was the first to suggest a national observance.

Anna Jarvis was known as the Mother of Mother’s Day. She never married nor had children. Ms. Jarvis was inspired by her own mother, Anna Marie Reeves Jarvis, who expressed a desire to pay tribute to all mothers, both living and dead, for all their contributions. Anna’s mother was a community activist and a social worker. Most noted were her efforts to heal the divide between north and central West Virginia after the Civil War by organizing Mothers’ Friendship Day. In her community she fought for improved sanitation. For 22 years she taught Sunday School at Andrews Methodist Episcopal Church. She was a popular public speaker, uncommon for a woman in those days. When she died in 1905, the church bells tolled 72 times in her honor.

After her mother’s death, Anna Jarvis became more resolved in establishing a Mother’s Day. She distributed white carnations during a church service at the West Virginia church. She chose white carnations because carnations were her mother’s favorite flower, and white because she felt it represented the purity of a mother’s love. She and other supporters lobbied for an official observance of Mother’s Day. West Virginia was the first state to recognize it as a holiday. In 1914 President Woodrow Wilson approved a resolution to designate the second Sunday in May as Mother’s Day.

This should have pleased Anna Jarvis, but instead, the observances upset her. She argued that Mother’s Day had turned into a commercialized event. She became notorious for her criticism of those who purchased greeting cards and accused them of being to lazy to write personal letters to “the woman who has done more for you than anyone in the world.” Before her death in 1948 Jarvis publicly protested a Mother’s Day celebration in New York City and was arrested for disturbing the peace. She was bitter and angry about what the Mother’s Day observance had become. She said she “wished [I] had never started the day because it became so out of control.”

In your writings this week, think about things you were initially passionate about, but in the end did not turn out as you intended. Maybe as in Jarvis’ case, things got out of control. You might want to start with a freewrite with “I am passionate about…” or “I want…” or “I wish…” Another suggestion is to freewrite about things going out of control. Freewrite for at least fifteen minutes and see where it takes you. As always…have fun with it!

Joyce Maynard, one of my favorite authors wrote a touching essay on Mother's Day. Here's the link: http://www.joycemaynard.com/home.shtml
[Note: Scroll midway down the page until you see "Letter From Joyce.]

Newspapers, Obituaries and "Dear Abby"

A newspaper article about a Texas girl who cut Elvis Presley’s name into her forehead was the inspiration for Anne Tyler’s novel, The Slipping Down Life. Flannery O’Connor admitted to collecting “oddities” from the newspaper. Joyce Carol Oates has used newspapers, the Ann Landers columns and True Confessions magazines for sources of her stories. In her essay, “The Nature of Short Fiction,” Oates wrote, “…it is the very skeletal nature of the newspaper, I think, that attracts me to it, the need it inspires in me to give flesh to such neatly and thinly-told tales, to resurrect this event which has already become history and will never be understood unless it is re-lived, redramatized.” Some examples of stories that resulted from such collecting are, “Where are you going, Where have you been?” and her novel, Black Water.

If you haven't already done so, I recommend starting an idea file. Cut out news stories, obituaries, photos, columns, or whatever else sparks interest. Read the tabloids as well as your local newspaper. It doesn’t matter if you don’t have an idea to go with the clipping yet. From time to time flip through your file. Ask, “What if?” Freewrite or cluster ideas.

Usually news stories report the end of the story, like, for instance, the crime for which the criminal was arrested or the winner of the bologna eating contest. You have to supply the details which led up to the headline. Or ask, “What happened next?” and construct your story that way. After reading an advice column, I often wonder what happened. Did the letter writer take the columnist’s advice? Did the situation get worse? The columnist could become part of the story as well.

Sometimes larger newspapers, like The New York Times, include essays about newly married or affianced couples which include details about how they met. Try obituaries. Sometimes they include extensive bios. Fill in whatever details that aren’t supplied. Read the personal ads and the classifieds. List the ad poster’s conflicts. Create a profile. Mix and match details and wants from several ads. Write a scene where your characters meet for the first time. If you have a story idea, keep going.

As always, have fun with it!

Easter Eggs

A year ago, if you had said the words, "Easter egg," to me, you would have received either a flat response or a cynical remark. And I never would have imagined that I, as a middle-aged adult, would ever be coloring Easter eggs and smiling about it.

This past Good Friday, my sweetheart and I colored Easter eggs. We were at his sister's farmhouse with her family. Mozart's Requiem played in the background. Spread all over the table were various types of dyes, the traditional vinegar and water ones as well as the new-fangled Q-tips with the dyes built in. I colored my eggs tentatively, afraid to experiment, lest I dye an ugly egg no one would want to look at, much less eat. The youngest participant, 18-year-old Leo, approached our egg decorating the Natalie Goldberg method. His first egg he decorated (with his girlfriend's encouragement) as ugly as he could. After that, his eggs were artistic with complicated designs. sister Kathy was absorbed mostly with silent concentration and furrowed brow as she made each egg look like a luscious piece of fruit. At one point, my sweetheart donned a jewler's loupe as he etched teeny words,"DO NOT EAT" on a robin's egg blue Easter egg.

Amazing what the years do to shift one's perception of things. Until recently, the memory of Easter Egg hunts elicited groans. I remember being shouted at not to snag my scratchy Easter dress on the azaela bushes or to not scuff my white patent leather shoes as I peeked under daffodils for brightly colored eggs. We had pretty Easter baskets, but after the flashbulbs were spent, we could not touch them and had to wait for Mother to dole out the sweets. Now Easter egg hunts make me laugh mischievously, and make me wish I had started planning ours weeks ago. Kathy's husband sends her and their daughter yearly Easter egg hunts that take an entire day and a tank of gas. I laugh when I think about the fun I could have with that.

When you write this week, think about your shifts in perception regarding family traditions and holidays. Maybe there wasn't a whole lot of thought or tradition given to your holidays. Write everything you can remember (try daily freewrites of at least ten minutes each) until you can't think of anything else. Tuck those writings away until the same time next year. Then write about the same subject. When you are finished, compare the freewrites. Can you detect any changes in perceptions...yet? And as always...have fun with it!

Our Dreams

A few years ago after my uncle’s funeral, I had a dream I still remember clearly. I was running, and breathlessly, I ended up in front of a beautiful brick house. The front lawn was filled with birdhouses—not those square boxes with a hole, but rather, beautiful scale models of Victorian homes with gingerbread trim. My cousin opened the door and ushered me in. Every time we tried to speak, someone new arrived and interrupted our conversation. Soon his living room was crowded with relatives, dead and alive.

For a long time I tried to figure out what this dream meant. Why would I be dreaming about this cousin? We had lost touch, seeing each other only at family funerals. Why were the dead relatives in his living room? And what was the urgent subject of the conversation we never finished? I looked for messages and warnings. Maybe I was supposed to call my cousin. Maybe the birdhouses symbolized something. I was grasping for a logical meaning. I never figured out what the dream was supposed to mean, if anything. Now I have a recurring dream about a white house. In some dreams it crashes into the ocean. I’m not going to drive myself crazy trying to figure out what that one means.

Dreams don’t have to mean anything. According to a therapist I know, she says dreams don’t mean anything unless they’re about your mother or umbrellas. I’m not sure if she was kidding. I bought a dream dictionary anyway. Instead of trying to find a logical meaning in our dreams, we should focus on the vivid images, the colors, the lights, the feeling that sticks in our gut when we wake up. Hone in on those images and jot them down.

In her book, Word Painting, Rebecca McClanahan suggests if we stop trying to figure out our dreams in order to "apply our conscious minds to the unconscious mind it is painting," we may begin to feel the power of the images. We can use those images in our own writing. Or you can use your dreams to help unblock your writing. Amy Tan would let her dreams help solve her story endings. Dreams may also be a source of story ideas. William Styron’s Sophie’s Choice was sparked by a dream. I used the actual dream I mentioned at the beginning in my short story, "Dead Relatives."

Keep a dream journal at your bedside. Record your dreams upon awakening, while they’re still fresh. Record as many details as you can remember—textures, colors, smells, sounds, lighting, and the feeling in your gut. Use your dream journal to record daydreams or other reverie. If you get into the habit of recording your dreams, you’ll probably remember them more and remember more details. After a week, review your journal. Are there any echoing themes or images? What images evoke strong negative or positive reactions? Freewrite about those. Can you use them in your other writing? Maybe an image fits into a short story you’re been working on. Or it is the ideal image with which you can start an article. It'’ possible to find a story idea in your dreams. Dreams lack the logical cause and effect sequence of fiction, but they can be seeds for stories. Or use them in stories, as I did.

Let’s go back to my recurring dream. In trying to figure out what it meant, I asked a lot of questions: Why were there dead relatives in the living room? What was the urgent subject of the conversation we never finished? Who made all the birdhouses? If I answer these questions, they could be bases for story conflicts. Pull out one of your dreams. Ask the five basic questions: Why? What? When? Where? How? Why? Then write possible answers for these questions. Remember, you’re not trying to interpret what the dream means. You’re brainstorming story ideas. If nothing comes to you at the moment, set it aside. An idea may come to you later, perhaps while you’re dreaming.

Thin Threads

Kiwi Publishing is hosting a Thin Threads Story Collection contest. The publisher defines a thin thread as "a moment that led to a positive change (not a thought through process or decision)." We make decisions on a daily basis. What to wear. What to eat for breakfast. Paper or plastic? Sometimes the decision is impulsive, and the result is life-altering.

Months ago, I made the decision to leave my bad marriage and move in with my dad who has dementia. Within twenty-four hours of making that decision, I packed whatever possessions I could fit into my VW. While I had had years of experience taking care of Alzheimer's and dementia patients, I was prepared for what I would face in trying to take care of my dad. It was a daily grieving process. I can't tell you the number of times I sat on the floor, crying on the phone to anyone who would listen, "I can't do this anymore." Somehow I managed, and meanwhile, I bounced through the five stages of grief, staying in some stages more than the others. I hate to admit, there were times I regretted my decision and was ready to go back to my marriage, as unstable and ugly as it was.

My life has changed for the better. I didn't have much help taking care of my father. The one person who did, was a childhood friend. Through the years, he became close to my dad, probably closer than I was able to be. Whenever I needed help, he was always right there. To use the cliche, one thing led to another, and now we're planning to get married someday.

Think about your own forks in the road. Were any of the decisions life-altering? Kiwi Publishing asks these questions to help you define your thin thread: Did you ever find yourself in a strange place or had any strange encounters? Did you ever make an impulsive decision that ended up changing your life for the better? What were you doing when you met your spouse or partner?

Set your timer for ten minutes and freewrite about "thin threads," "a fork in the road" or any similar theme. If you're interested in submitting your polished piece to Kiwi Publishing, the submission guidelines are here. Also, come join me in the discussion. See you there!

Creating Drama

I've been reading Julia Cameron's book, Finding Water. Today I read something that struck a deep, resounding chord within me. She wrote, "Artists love drama and when we do not create it on the page or on the stage, we often create it in our lives." While I've been avoiding being wrangled into other people's dramas, I've been using my own as excuses for not writing. My dad has dementia and I'm his primary caregiver, his nurse, his maid, his cook and personal shopper. My impending divorce is getting messy. I have to find a real job. I can't write because I'm too uspet, angry or busy. I can't write because Daddy doesn't let me.

Yesterday morning I allowed myself to get so stressed out that I accomplished nothing. I kept complaining about having too much to do. As soon as I started one task, I found ten others that were undone. I became angry with the world because I didn't have enough "me" time. Then I felt guilty for being so selfish. I had allowed myself to get caught up in my own vicious circle. Nothing was getting done.

"I want to write, but no one is letting me," I yelled at my cats who were really starting to work my last nerve because they were getting in my way.

My dad was safely at his adult day care, and I had several hours before I had to pick him up. He certainly wasn't keeping me from writing. I turned off the television and the vacuum cleaner and went to my desk. I started to write. Almost immediately, I felt better. After writing non-stop for two hours, I didn't feel so overwhelmed with the other aspects of my life. The drama I was creating on the page was much more interesting and satisfying that the drama I had created in my brain. I was more patient with Dad and his asking the same question over and over again. He became more pleasant, maybe because for once I felt relaxed. This morning as I drove through the rain to take my dad to day care, we laughed and joked. He didn't try to jump out of the car before we arrived at the facility. I knew I would be going home to write. I couldn't wait to fill up blank pages and to spend the day with my characters.

Cameron also writes, "We hear so often that the artist's temperament is restless, irritable, and discontented. All of that is very true--when we are not working." She suggests that we are "restless, irritable, and discontent because we are not cherishing the life we have." I especially like her line, "Any life--and I mean any--has some things in it that are well worth noticing and appreciating." For our writing exercise, I'm going to borrow Cameron's. Write a list of ten things that you cherish in your life. For instance, "I cherish another day with my dad," or "I cherish the smell of coffee as I get out of bed." Cameron says that the things you cherish may surprise you and you may not cherish the things you think you "should." If you have time, do a ten-minute freewrite on at least one from your list. Feel free to share your lists here.