Truth

Truth is incontrovertible. Malice may attack it. Ignorance may deride it. But in the end, there it is —Sir Winston Leonard Spencer Churchill

The truth will set you free. Odds are against any one of us. Really, it is. To be noticed. To be accepted. To be published. To make a living writing. And with the economy as it is—well, that chance just got that much harder.

I, for one, have decided it isn’t worth the heartache. I’ve let the dream go. Just let it go. Accepted the truth. Accepted the facts in front of me. Few are chosen. Fewer make money. The economy has gone south, the market tightened. It’s bound to tighten even more. The dream of getting your novel published, your article sold is ever farther away.

Hey, TiGi, what ya doing here? Isn’t this blog supposed to build writers up? Give us hope? Give us inspiration? You’re killing us here.

Wait. Truth does set you free. If the possibility of getting published is ever farther away—Why not write for yourself? For the fun, the enjoyment and the love of writing? Just that. Bring all the joy and freedom you had once back. Stop writing for publication. Stop trying to be accepted by that editor who is looking for what’s selling big. Stop trying to compete with writers like James Patterson or Nora Roberts.

Write just for little old you. Ignore all the ought-to’s and should-have articles, the how-to books telling you how to get published. Just write. What does it matter? Write your book, your story, your article. Write however you want.

Impossible sets you free.

What would you write and how if you weren’t worried about success or getting published? Could you soar? I think, maybe so.

So—let’s.

I think we get so caught up in what we need to do to get published, to get accepted that we lose the very thing we love most about writing. Then, in tiny, small ways our writing becomes stilted and cold. Maybe, we should write to save ourselves, for ourselves. In doing that, I think our writing will be that much better. That much more true and real.

And you know what? They’re going to want that, those publishers looking for the next great thing. That’s the truth.

For the Holidays

We can never know what is around the corner of our tomorrows. As so often happens, it is unrecognized treasures. Some sink; some float. We can never tell which will do what until the water hits. The water hit this year and I’m still afloat. A bit worse for wear, but I feel better every day and I’m going to embrace that.


I have wonderful friends and family around who have kept me afloat when I couldn’t do it myself. I’m back to walking my dog two miles every day. Just a few months ago I couldn’t walk to the bedroom.


I’m writing again and feeling excited about it. Writing has become its own reward. It better be. Odds are against me right now, but that’s ok, too. I will never underestimate what I can do again. Instead, I’ll look back on how far I’ve come already. It’s what I do everyday anyway, that counts. That’s what gets a book, essay or poem written. That’s how you get well. That’s how you live.


I’ve come to realize how blessed I am. I never want to forget that. My life will never be perfect. As Annette Funicello said, life doesn’t have to be perfect to be wonderful.
Wishing for peace, love, and happiness for all of you.



Happy Holidays

Life Is Plan B

Snow—from my office window everywhere I look white and stark or brown and weathered meets my eye. The contrast pleasing but I feel estranged, isolated in my office garret. And I’ve been thinking…

On CBS Sunday Morning yesterday, in a piece on Dustin Hoffman, Hoffman mentioned he never intended to be an actor. His dream was to be a jazz musician. He has become a very successful actor, struggled through rejection and criticism to do it. He said, even now, he would kill to be a jazz musician. His word struck a chord.

We’re all given a treasure chest full of talents. Through the years we use them under various means and circumstances—some thrust upon us by life, finances, timing. Some we capitalize on in hopes of success. Mostly we make the best of things. Sometimes, we succeed beyond our wildest dreams and hopes. Sometimes, we do something; decide something that sets a path along a road we never intended to go.

Most people look back and wonder, maybe even grieve about that path not taken. That is human nature. They may regret what they did instead of what they intended. One always wonders if things would have turned out better.

A lot of self-help books encourage us to find that thing we dreamed of and reach for it again. A great idea, but in the process I say, honor the plan B life you’ve had. Think back—remember why decisions were made, realize you were making choices because of many outside influences. Honor your choices. Hind sight is a different perspective. Remember you made your choice because of what you knew at the time.

Life does not have to follow your carefully thought out plan to be great. Think of all you would have missed—beautiful, wonderful, unplanned things that slipped into your life you would have missed if things had gone according to plan.

And if you’ve decided to pursue your waylaid, set aside dream of writing—wonderful. Be thankful because every minute of your plan B life can be used to fuel, contribute, enhance your writing. Nothing you’ve done, learned, experienced needs go to waste. Grab all the stuff you’ve gone through and use it for fodder—you just can’t make that stuff up.

Little Godsends(1)

Little Godsends:

What are Godsends? They are mini-windfalls. Serendipitous finds. Things or events slipped under the radar that most of the time we fail to notice. We have to be present to receive them. There are hundreds of these that come to us every day. How many do you actually see?

Some of mine:

• Kitty kisses.

• My neglected garden finally a snow-shrouded fantasy.

• A conversation with my granddaughter(I don’t think either of us understood a thing the other said, but it was the best conversation I had all week).

• The hollow, wooden caw of a crow bidding me hello on my daily two-mile walk.

• Flannel sheets.

• The next-door neighbor boy shoveling my driveway and sidewalks.

• Magpies stealing nuts from my walnut tree and joined by a morning glory blue Scrub Jay.

• The lacy cross-hatched tracks of chickadee’s scattered across my snow-covered patio.

• Sunlight slanting across the fresh snow, mid-morning.

• Hersey's Kisses Hot Cocoa

Find some Godsends of your own. Write them down. Treasure them.

The Writer and Writer's Digest

I started writing stories in the back seat of an old ’54 gray and white Chevy. Bored more than anything. We didn’t have Game boys, I-pods or cell phones. Heck, I didn’t even have the luxury of paper and pen at first. Only a stub pencil and a piece of cardboard my father tore from a box for me. I can still remember the feel of the rough seatback as I slid down into the seat. The world went away as I wrote.


The story was an adventure about a girl and her horse. Back then it always was. I was completely horse crazy. A dreamer of a girl, with her nose in a book or notebook. A friend of my mom called, fey. I was always pretending, always somewhere else in my mind. Making up adventures, dialogue, characters.


In high school years later, my desire to write became a tentative career move. (Not completely serious because back then, the real goal for girls back then was still to get married. The 60s free love hadn’t quite caught up to my small town.) My father introduced me to The Writer and Writer’s Digest. Once a month I would find a copy of both on my bed. Quiet encouragement. Nudges.


I read them cover to cover. Took every writing class my high school offered, wrote reams of angst-riddled poetry and high school news copy. Then, like every other girl in my class I went looking for my guy.


That was over forty years ago, my father’s been gone most of them. I still read every issue of both magazines, cover to cover. That steady, quiet encouragement has whispered to me all these years. My father, a floundering writer himself, understood my lapses, my day-dreaming, my imagination. My sometimes observing life instead of living it, of not always being completely present. He, too, knew what it was like to try to imprint something that popped into his mind so he didn’t lose it. He understood my eaves-dropping on conversation, my constant questions, my wondering, my compulsion to find out why, how, when, where and who.


He must have known the same desperation when he found himself without pen or paper, the gut-punch of rejection, the quiet desperate theft of that moment in a busy life to write, but I’m not sure he had the quiet encouragement I got from him. That I still get, every month as the magazines come to my mailbox. A little encouragement from heaven.


We all need some. Here’s a nydge for all of you.



Write—Save yourself. Write anyway!

About MPGN

Definition on howstuffworks.com: Membranoproliferative glomerulonephritis type I is a kidney disorder that results in disrupted kidney function, caused by inflammation and changes to the microscopic structure of the kidney cells.

Though this blog is intended for writers, about writing and the writing life, intended to be a helping hand, an small inspiration for struggling writers, no matter what their struggling with, I do hope others with MPGN find this blog and that something in it might help, give hope. Something like—there's someone else out there with the disease who is just trying to get along. I haven't found anything like that, though I've tried.

I found little on the internet or anywhere else about MPGN that wasn’t medical reports stuffed with medical jargon I couldn’t understand. Most of it so depressing I didn’t really want to read any of it. There was nothing personal-you know—about how the patient gets by, what medications works for them, how they felt after getting the diagnosis, how they've learned to go on with a positive outlook. Everything was doom and gloom, worst case scenarios.

The disease is rare enough that there really isn’t a set way to treat it, no clinical trials that prove one treatment works over another. They don’t know what works or if anything does. The disease can go away and never return or come back as soon as the patient comes off treatment.

I know I shouldn’t be a Pollyanna, but I don’t want to concentrate on the negative. Maybe, some kind of discussion or info or something will start here. Or not. One can hope and put out a thread, can’t they?

Between Pages/On Screen(November 2008 reads)

Something has guided my reading, of late, I think.

The Story of Edgar Sawtelle by David Wroblavski: I would never have picked this book on my own. My daughter-in-law picked this up for my son because of the picture on the front, After he read it, he told me I just had to read it. I’m a dog-lover, for one thing. When I was younger I taught dog training classes. I’ve always been interested in dog behavior and the intuitiveness of some dogs. Some dogs have it, some just don’t. This book touched on so many aspects of that, but it was also a wonderful human story with mystery, and love, and survival in it.

Little Earthquakes by Jennifer Weiner: This book tugged not only my heart but my memories of that first year of my first child. Each of the four women went through something similar to what I did, yet different. Each came to a point of epiphany as I eventually did. It showed so wonderfully that life really is plan B.

The Art of Racing in the Rain by Garth Stein: I love Enso. Everyone needs a friend like him. His view of life is so clear and wise. The book told a wonderful human story, too, sad and hard. It illustrated how to survive life as a good guy. How to rise above what life dishes out. I wrote down so many quotes from this book, I felt I was reading a philosophy book.

Peg Bracken: Not many will even know who she is, but I love Peg Bracken. I read her years ago as a young bride. Loved her I Hate to Cook Cookbook and used many of her recipes, but better still is her humor and way of looking at life. It sure helped me all those years ago when I was buried in diapers(cloth) and housework. Rereading her books as research was a pleasure. Not many do what she and Erma Brombeck did for humor writing or writing for the women of the day.

Oh course, I was surprised to see how much has changed, but so much has stayed the same. Also, interesting to see how similar the economy was. Comforting in these times. Peg’s philosophy is wonderful. Her writing, natural and friendly and a bit quirky. I enjoyed.

I just finished Bracken’s “I Didn’t Come Here To Argue”. In it was one of the best essays on writing I’ve read. Reading it in a book published1954 slipped through my heart like a balm. Another woman writer, struggling just like me. A different time, in some ways a more difficult time for women. She felt like I do, but she plugged on, became successful. She did it with wry humor, moxie and persistence. I like that.

Sometimes, we beat our chests too much, us writers. Writing is hard. It’s supposed to be hard, but it doesn’t have to kill us.

Lucky Man by Michael J. Fox: A great memoir. I read this as an assignment. I was planning to take a class on memoir writing but I decided to use the book Writing Life Stories by Bill Roorbach first, and do my own workshop, of sorts, until I see how my mind and the meds I’m on work out. Well, I happened to have Lucky Man in my TBR (To Be Read(we all have them, right?) shelf. It’s been sitting there several years.

Boy, am I glad I finally read it. The book was not only interesting, but Fox wrote candidly about a diagnosis of a disease that he’ll live with the rest of his life. Without self-pity, he reveals the same emotions I’m feeling, clarifies them for me, lists the stages of grief(I didn’t even consider that it was grief I was feeling). It made me feel steadier and maybe, a bit more normal. His optimism and hope sing true, his determination encourages me. I need that.

I guess it is true that when the student is ready, the teacher appears. This was the book I needed at this moment. So often that has happened to me this year. I think, maybe, it happens all the time, only I haven’t been as open to serendipity.

Dewey: The Small-town Library Cat Who Touch the World by Vicki Myron and Bret Witter: The timing of reading this book was perfect, too. Still grieving over the loss of my Irene, the picture on the cover of the book caught my eye. Usually I would wait until the book came out in paperback, but I was going fall camping and needed a good book to read so I splurged. A wonderful read. I laughed and cried and healed a bit.

The Beginning

The Beginning

I get by with a little help from my friends.
—John Lennon and Paul McCartney

You hear writers complain about how solitary writing is, how isolated they feel, even as they pray for time alone to ‘write.’ That quiet room is a double–edged sword when words won’t come. A grand desire we fear, too, because there are no excuses there. Only the fact you’re not writing.



Here’s two quite empty hours, honey. What you going to do with it?



From experience, I know I never get enough. Of the two hours or work done. And that quiet can be deafening. Incessant as a September house fly. The whirring fan noise at the end of summer that you finally switch off and your ears sigh.



Summer’s done in. My ears, too.



You hear writers complain how agonizing writing can be. That all you have to do is open a vein, sit in a chair until blood beads across your forehead, pull up memories better left alone. Non-writers rarely understand why we do it. And they’re right, if only we could help it. Most of us wouldn’t put ourselves through it either, except-we love what we do. How can you explain that to someone who doesn’t write? Well, you can’t. It’s like explaining golf. If the person with the lowest score wins, I never can figure out why to begin in the first place.



So writers get together with other writers. They have workshops, conferences and critic groups. They whine and commiserate. That’s how they survive. They grab hold of one another’s arm and help each other up one little step. Again and again.



I had that too, until a few years ago. I had a group I managed to meet with once a month. I had a friend I talked to regularly or at least e-mailed once a week. We supported each other. Gave each other pep talks and cheerleading rah, rah rahs. Then circumstances changed as my mother aged, then developed age-related breast cancer. I stopped going to meetings so I could shuttle her to the store, to the doctors, to lunch, out of the house. I still had my small block of writing time though. That was most important.





And I kept in touch with my friend, needing the feedback from another writer. I needed that encouragement and support. Needed the inspiration.



It’s been over four years. My ninety-two year old mother is still doing well, God bless her. I wouldn’t wish anything else. The time spent with her has been rewarding and rich, but of course more time-intensive.



My friend’s circumstances have changed, too. She is busy with an aging parent, too, and a retired husband. We get in touch rarely now. And of course, it isn’t the same. We’ve lost the threads. We haven’t the time or consistency of knowing the detail of each other’s writing life. Though she has been there in hours of great need, and there have been those, as I was diagnosed with a kidney disease just this year, I have been absent another writer’s shoulder or I should say, arm, for too long.



My writing has suffered this year. No way around that, but even worse, I’ve lost my writer’s support and I feel that just as keenly.



It came to me one sleepless night. I have to be the thing I need, even if it’s just for me. I know there must be other lost writers, floundering writers that need a voice out there saying, you can do it. Don’t give up. No matter what. DON’T GIVE UP. Save yourself. Write anyway. If nothing else. Save yourself.



Let me tell you how I got through that one. You tell me how you got through that one. All I needed was just one someone, just some common ordinary writer, rarely published who’ll grab an arm, help me take one more step. Don’t you, too?



How can I be the thing I need? I thought I’ll start this blog.

Windfalls

Windfalls…


Unexpected gifts plunked in my lap, landing at my feet, conking me on my head. Windfalls?Blown by chance, design, or circumstance, delivered by friends, family, strangers, or nature.
I’ve had a lifetime of them, as I’m sure you have, too. And t



This year—more than I can count.


Windfalls…


Some, I’ve had to be open for, aware enough to notice and appreciate. Some have been disguised by heartache. Others, I’ve had to look real hard to see. We all receive them. Every day. A helping hand, a smile, a tiny treasure. Gifts, nudges, little hands up.


Windfalls? They’re good to pass along, too. That’s what I’d like to do. Hand windfalls out to those in need; conk someone else in the head, whisper in another’s needy ear, drop one or two into someone’s empty lap.


Someone else like me…


Me?


Well, I’m a struggling writer with more rejections than publications. More projects started than finished. I flounder, but I keep trying.


I’ve been…
A lonely girl in the back seat of a ’54 Chevy Coup writing stories on the back of cardboard boxes to pass the time. An awkward sixth-grader stumbling through puberty, aching to be Louisa May Alcott. A long-haired, hippy-inspired teenager coping with love, school and the death of her father the only way she knew how-by pouring her anguish on paper, for the grief was too big for tears. A new mother with a colicky baby and long sleepless nights to wade through. A mom with a house full of active boys whose husband worked out of town six days a week during another long ago economic ‘downturn.’ An empty nester. A primary care-giver for an elderly cancer-survivor. A fifty-something grandma.


Writing has pulled me up, dragged me through. It’s saved me.