From my blog I’m sure you know I read a lot of books on writing. It’s an obsession, I’m certain, and maybe, I’m hoping I’ll absorb whatever it is that will help me be a great writer. I do love reading these books, but I’ve always like how-to books in general, anyway.
In 2003, I read Take Joy by Jane Yolen. This was the first book on writing that suggested there was joy to be had in writing, not opening a vein or blood drops forming on my forehead. She suggested it was a personal choice—writing with joy.
Over the years, I’ve come to agree. Why on earth would I want to do this every day unless I find joy in it? There are only a handful of writers who really make a good living at writing. And fame seems overrated. There has to be something else, something more.
Joy is the something else for me. More so now. Now, that I know how miserable I can be when I can’t write. I’ll take the rejections, solitude, frustration. I’ll take the struggles against children, family, friends, obligations before I ever want to face not being able to put words to paper again.
Now, that was misery.
So, I’ll take sideways glances and thinly veiled questions about what I do all day. I’ll take interruptions that drive me insane and guilt that I’m not the grandma, daughter, wife, mother I ought to be. I’ll take nagging doubt that never quite goes away.
When I finally was able to write again, I decided I would enjoy every day I wrote. I would ignore the miserable news about the economy and publication. I would care less whether what I write was the new in thing or not. I would just write. Write what it was that I ached to write. I would let joy flow from me in words.
I would choose. I take joy.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Friday, May 22, 2009
Planting Done
Finally, the garden’s planted. The vegetables: tomatoes, peppers, cabbage and broccoli plants set; carrots, squash-summer and winter, spinach, lettuce, chard and green onion seeds sowed.
I’ve moved daffodils I didn’t get moved last year from eliminated flower beds and crocus. The grass is coming up nicely under the locus tree and I’ve killed the ground cover in the top garden. It’s ready to place the slate rock down.
I’ll get to that, a little at a time but it isn’t pressing now. I’ve planted a new rose-Southern Belle, a buttery yellow Grandiflora on its own root, 3 new clematis-Autumn Sweet, Will Goodwin and Arabella. I simplified my pots-planting geraniums mostly-all colors. I eliminated a great deal of my pots. Just more work than I need.
I tucked plenty of ‘Lady in Red’ and ‘Forest Fire’ Salvia around the yard for the hummingbirds, impatiens in the shady gardens, as usual, a bright mix instead of one color. I’m feeling a bit flamboyant, wild this year. I don’t really care if my colors coordinate. No, this year I just want to get a good, happy jolt when I look around my yard.
I kept some of the winter pansies. Pansies are one of my favorite flowers. They are, for me, my work horse. I plant them every September-they bloom until November, often, right through the snow, then come February, they begin again and go on until the end of May. In May, I either pull them or cut them back and fertilize. Most continue on until August, some don’t. It’s always a gamble, but one that works often enough to try once more.
I read a ton of gardening books and magazines. I haunt them in the winter, looking for color and hope, but I love the advice and instructions. I filter the information, apply what sounds like it fits my gardening style but I’ve learned to experiment on my own, too. And I’ve learned to listen to my own heart, especially about color, form and style. This is what works for me in my garden. My take is that if everyone did things exactly the same wouldn’t every garden be too much alike?
And I take that same approach with my writing. I love books and magazines on writing, subscribe to several magazines, constantly have a book on some craft of writing going, but I’ve learned to listen to my own heart as well. I take the advice, the instruction and tweak it for my life, my style, my writing. Trust yourself.
Trust yourself a little more.
I’ve moved daffodils I didn’t get moved last year from eliminated flower beds and crocus. The grass is coming up nicely under the locus tree and I’ve killed the ground cover in the top garden. It’s ready to place the slate rock down.
I’ll get to that, a little at a time but it isn’t pressing now. I’ve planted a new rose-Southern Belle, a buttery yellow Grandiflora on its own root, 3 new clematis-Autumn Sweet, Will Goodwin and Arabella. I simplified my pots-planting geraniums mostly-all colors. I eliminated a great deal of my pots. Just more work than I need.
I tucked plenty of ‘Lady in Red’ and ‘Forest Fire’ Salvia around the yard for the hummingbirds, impatiens in the shady gardens, as usual, a bright mix instead of one color. I’m feeling a bit flamboyant, wild this year. I don’t really care if my colors coordinate. No, this year I just want to get a good, happy jolt when I look around my yard.
I kept some of the winter pansies. Pansies are one of my favorite flowers. They are, for me, my work horse. I plant them every September-they bloom until November, often, right through the snow, then come February, they begin again and go on until the end of May. In May, I either pull them or cut them back and fertilize. Most continue on until August, some don’t. It’s always a gamble, but one that works often enough to try once more.
I read a ton of gardening books and magazines. I haunt them in the winter, looking for color and hope, but I love the advice and instructions. I filter the information, apply what sounds like it fits my gardening style but I’ve learned to experiment on my own, too. And I’ve learned to listen to my own heart, especially about color, form and style. This is what works for me in my garden. My take is that if everyone did things exactly the same wouldn’t every garden be too much alike?
And I take that same approach with my writing. I love books and magazines on writing, subscribe to several magazines, constantly have a book on some craft of writing going, but I’ve learned to listen to my own heart as well. I take the advice, the instruction and tweak it for my life, my style, my writing. Trust yourself.
Trust yourself a little more.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Dreams
I just finished a wonderful article in the June issue of Reader’s Digest. Written by Jacquelyn Mitchard, of The Deep End of the Ocean fame, Why Passion Matters is Mitchard’s take on letting children dream.
Kids dream. They’re much better at it than we are. They dream big and don’t worry over much about details. Over the years I’ve observed many parents advising their kids on future plans, schooling. I’ve given a bit of my own advice, even been the recipient of ‘good’ advice. Advice for practicality, for a fallback plan, for training and pursuing a secure, smart job field. And with every good, sound advice I’ve heard, there has been something in me silently screaming no.
In my own case, I had two passions in junior high: animals and writing. In my Careers class we were supposed to write a paper about two careers we thought we’d like to pursue. I chose veterinarian or writer. My teacher and parents told me both were impossible careers, informing me women weren’t accepted into Veterinarian school and writing was a wonderful hobby but writers couldn’t make a decent living. While both were true, I can’t tell you how I felt hearing that. It deflated me in this tiny, furtive way.
I never questioned the whole ‘women in Veterinarian school’. (It wouldn’t have mattered in writing the paper on careers, anyway.) By default I decided to do the paper on English teacher as my career, although that sounded like a consolation prize. (Truth be told, I don’t think I could ever stand in front of a class everyday either)
I’ve heard parent’s advise, gently guide, even brainwash their kids into a path they think best, safe, smart. Often it proves a good wise fit, but I wonder what could have been and secretly cringed inside. Now days there is so much pressure for kids to be better and faster that dreams seem hard to come by. It’s true, in order to get by there isn’t much chance to dream, to pursue frivolous occupations, but…kids ought to be allowed to dream.
I think, I know, dreams persist anyway. They will find their way out into the light some time, some way, somehow. And sometimes in the fight for the light, those dreams break your heart. Much better to chase them and fail, then to have them stymied, I think. I wonder if letting kids dream more, be practical less isn’t a wiser thing.
I like Mitchard’s advice: Risk everything. Plans, B, C, D, and E will always be there.
What about giving some time to Plan A? Plan B comes along sure as computer crashes.
I don’t know that I did such a good job teaching my kids to follow dreams, (I hope I wasn’t too totally practical. I hope I left room for them to follow dreams) but I can’t go back and redo it. So, if I only teach my grandkids one thing—I want it to be to dream, (despite what parents or teachers say), to follow those dreams even into failure. If I do that I’ll be pleased.
If you have a chance to read this article, do so.
Kids dream. They’re much better at it than we are. They dream big and don’t worry over much about details. Over the years I’ve observed many parents advising their kids on future plans, schooling. I’ve given a bit of my own advice, even been the recipient of ‘good’ advice. Advice for practicality, for a fallback plan, for training and pursuing a secure, smart job field. And with every good, sound advice I’ve heard, there has been something in me silently screaming no.
In my own case, I had two passions in junior high: animals and writing. In my Careers class we were supposed to write a paper about two careers we thought we’d like to pursue. I chose veterinarian or writer. My teacher and parents told me both were impossible careers, informing me women weren’t accepted into Veterinarian school and writing was a wonderful hobby but writers couldn’t make a decent living. While both were true, I can’t tell you how I felt hearing that. It deflated me in this tiny, furtive way.
I never questioned the whole ‘women in Veterinarian school’. (It wouldn’t have mattered in writing the paper on careers, anyway.) By default I decided to do the paper on English teacher as my career, although that sounded like a consolation prize. (Truth be told, I don’t think I could ever stand in front of a class everyday either)
I’ve heard parent’s advise, gently guide, even brainwash their kids into a path they think best, safe, smart. Often it proves a good wise fit, but I wonder what could have been and secretly cringed inside. Now days there is so much pressure for kids to be better and faster that dreams seem hard to come by. It’s true, in order to get by there isn’t much chance to dream, to pursue frivolous occupations, but…kids ought to be allowed to dream.
I think, I know, dreams persist anyway. They will find their way out into the light some time, some way, somehow. And sometimes in the fight for the light, those dreams break your heart. Much better to chase them and fail, then to have them stymied, I think. I wonder if letting kids dream more, be practical less isn’t a wiser thing.
I like Mitchard’s advice: Risk everything. Plans, B, C, D, and E will always be there.
What about giving some time to Plan A? Plan B comes along sure as computer crashes.
I don’t know that I did such a good job teaching my kids to follow dreams, (I hope I wasn’t too totally practical. I hope I left room for them to follow dreams) but I can’t go back and redo it. So, if I only teach my grandkids one thing—I want it to be to dream, (despite what parents or teachers say), to follow those dreams even into failure. If I do that I’ll be pleased.
If you have a chance to read this article, do so.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Food/Recipes
Everyone has to eat, even writers locked away in their garret, attic, loft, office. Some writers cook for husbands, wives, kids or families, too. On those days when a writer is in the middle of the white heat of a good writing session cooking is the last thing on their mind.
Often, the idea of planning (the part of the job that haunts me), preparing, and cleaning up a meal is the most dreaded part of the day. Yet…Strangely, last summer when I was sickest—flat on the couch, barely able to get to the bathroom, all I thought about was cooking. It haunted my sleep, nagged at my days.
The most I could do was lie on the couch and watch Rachael Ray. Her no-nonsense way of cooking, the sound of chopping, sizzling grabbed me. I dreamed of chopping vegetables, putting together meals. The dreams, the thoughts, the cooking shows soothed me in the strangest, most elemental way. It almost felt like healing. And as I got better and could string more than two thoughts together, I got hooked on Cooking Mama on my DS. It was the best I could do for the time being.
Married for thirty-eight years, I’ve done the majority of the cooking, other than grilling. My husband can cope with just about anything, but in all the years we'd been married he rarely cooked other than breakfast, or while camping. While I was sick, though, he was stuck with it. It was the strangest, worst, funniest couple of weeks, watching him struggle. All those years, secretly wishing for a hand in the kitchen and—I hated that he had to do it. Hated him in my kitchen, using my stove, my tools. I could hardly wait to pushing him out and just do what I usually did.
Hey, I’ve always loved to cook. As a girl I watched Julia Child and the Galloping Gourmet religiously and imagined myself as someone like that. Yeah, right. Anyway I've cooked for a family of five since I was in the sixth grade, but even with that, there have been days I longed for someone else to do that daily job. It seemed that that longing turned around and bit me in the stretch pants last year.
I would say it was a case of being careful what you wish for—you just might get it.
Over the years I’ve collected some tricks and recipes that help with the daily grind of planning and executing meals. I have been lucky, too, because I’ve had a lot of friends and family with great recipes and talent, with tricks to make good meals fast and easily.
Here, I include a recipe I got when I was in seventh grade cooking class. At the time, Utah Power and Light Company went around to the schools and demonstrated a meal for the girls in cooking class. The two things I remember was this meal and the white aprons, trimmed in blue gingham we had to wear, embroidered names on the right shoulder and all.
The meal: Beef Stroganoff, green beans, herb rolls and peanut cookies with kisses
Beef Stroganoff
¼ cup butter
¼ cup chopped onion
1 minced garlic clove
1 lb. hamburger
1 6oz can mushrooms
3 Tbles. lemon juice
1 can consommé
1 teas. salt
¼ teas pepper
2 cups wide egg noodles
1 cup sour cream
Sauté onion, garlic until golden. Add meat, cooking and stirring until red color disappears. Stir in mushrooms, lemon juice, consommé. Add salt and pepper, then simmer for 5 minutes. Stir in noodles and cook covered for 10 or 12 minutes. Mix in sour cream. Garnish with parsley.
I still serve this with green beans. Also because I am on a salt restricted diet I don’t add the teaspoon of salt, then those who want can add salt to their serving. Serves 5.
This was the first meal my husband fixed while I was recuperating and managed great. It’s simple and quick.
Often, the idea of planning (the part of the job that haunts me), preparing, and cleaning up a meal is the most dreaded part of the day. Yet…Strangely, last summer when I was sickest—flat on the couch, barely able to get to the bathroom, all I thought about was cooking. It haunted my sleep, nagged at my days.
The most I could do was lie on the couch and watch Rachael Ray. Her no-nonsense way of cooking, the sound of chopping, sizzling grabbed me. I dreamed of chopping vegetables, putting together meals. The dreams, the thoughts, the cooking shows soothed me in the strangest, most elemental way. It almost felt like healing. And as I got better and could string more than two thoughts together, I got hooked on Cooking Mama on my DS. It was the best I could do for the time being.
Married for thirty-eight years, I’ve done the majority of the cooking, other than grilling. My husband can cope with just about anything, but in all the years we'd been married he rarely cooked other than breakfast, or while camping. While I was sick, though, he was stuck with it. It was the strangest, worst, funniest couple of weeks, watching him struggle. All those years, secretly wishing for a hand in the kitchen and—I hated that he had to do it. Hated him in my kitchen, using my stove, my tools. I could hardly wait to pushing him out and just do what I usually did.
Hey, I’ve always loved to cook. As a girl I watched Julia Child and the Galloping Gourmet religiously and imagined myself as someone like that. Yeah, right. Anyway I've cooked for a family of five since I was in the sixth grade, but even with that, there have been days I longed for someone else to do that daily job. It seemed that that longing turned around and bit me in the stretch pants last year.
I would say it was a case of being careful what you wish for—you just might get it.
Over the years I’ve collected some tricks and recipes that help with the daily grind of planning and executing meals. I have been lucky, too, because I’ve had a lot of friends and family with great recipes and talent, with tricks to make good meals fast and easily.
Here, I include a recipe I got when I was in seventh grade cooking class. At the time, Utah Power and Light Company went around to the schools and demonstrated a meal for the girls in cooking class. The two things I remember was this meal and the white aprons, trimmed in blue gingham we had to wear, embroidered names on the right shoulder and all.
The meal: Beef Stroganoff, green beans, herb rolls and peanut cookies with kisses
Beef Stroganoff
¼ cup butter
¼ cup chopped onion
1 minced garlic clove
1 lb. hamburger
1 6oz can mushrooms
3 Tbles. lemon juice
1 can consommé
1 teas. salt
¼ teas pepper
2 cups wide egg noodles
1 cup sour cream
Sauté onion, garlic until golden. Add meat, cooking and stirring until red color disappears. Stir in mushrooms, lemon juice, consommé. Add salt and pepper, then simmer for 5 minutes. Stir in noodles and cook covered for 10 or 12 minutes. Mix in sour cream. Garnish with parsley.
I still serve this with green beans. Also because I am on a salt restricted diet I don’t add the teaspoon of salt, then those who want can add salt to their serving. Serves 5.
This was the first meal my husband fixed while I was recuperating and managed great. It’s simple and quick.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
One of Those Days
It’s been one of those days. A day full of interruptions. In other words—life. A writer’s dread.
I’ve been working on a few poems to enter in Writer’s Digest Writing Competition. This was something I told myself last year I’d do if I got feeling better—suck up my fear and just do.
Disregard the—what if I win? (Grand prize is $3000 cash and a trip to New York City to meet with editors or agents. I’m not sure I can get on a plane, let alone meet with an editor or agent living in New York. After all, I’m a small town coward)
Disregard the—what if I lose? (Does that mean I have absolutely no talent or chance? And if it does mean that what do I do then?)
So, here I am, with five poems I’ve been working on for a while, some since 2002, in fact. I love these poems, but I tend to love anything I’ve lived that long with, tended to, worked on. I have no outside readers, much as I need someone. Can husband or family be trusted to tell the truth or be willing to hurt my feelings if that’s what I need?
I have to make a choice between the five. I’m only going to enter two. How on earth do I pick? While I mull that over, I have people here stripping off the roofing from my house. You know, hammering, scrapping, talking. This, of course, had my dog barking and pacing, trying to ‘protect’ me, one of my cats hiding under the blankets, certain the life as she knows it is gone, the other cat on my lap wanting reassurance.
Oh, wait, I forgot about the car needing to be taken to be repaired, but as luck or love would have it, my husband took care of that. Forgot about the man coming to bid the rain gutters, but luck and love are still with me there, too.
It’s hard enough trying to pick a best poem—like picking a best child. Can’t really do it, but the noise and chaos doesn’t help. And on top of that are worries of my husband on the roof removing the air-conditioner to be replaced.
As I said, life goes on. It must. Writers must learn to live in that, even while the words won’t let them alone.
I’m determined to work at my writing, determined not to let this stress me (I’m not supposed to stress because of my MPGN. I’m supposed to watch my blood pressure. Make sure it doesn’t get too high, but how in Blue’s sake can I avoid days like these. Life must go on. And believe me, when it doesn’t—now that’s stress.)
So, here I am, at my desk Fleetwood Mac blaring from the stereo so I don’t hear what’s going on over my head, trying to write with one frightened cat huddled in my lap, another shivering beneath the blankets and a dog on patrol.
If I get nothing more done today than to pick the two poems to enter in the contest, I’ll have beat the odds. Don’t you think?
I’ve been working on a few poems to enter in Writer’s Digest Writing Competition. This was something I told myself last year I’d do if I got feeling better—suck up my fear and just do.
Disregard the—what if I win? (Grand prize is $3000 cash and a trip to New York City to meet with editors or agents. I’m not sure I can get on a plane, let alone meet with an editor or agent living in New York. After all, I’m a small town coward)
Disregard the—what if I lose? (Does that mean I have absolutely no talent or chance? And if it does mean that what do I do then?)
So, here I am, with five poems I’ve been working on for a while, some since 2002, in fact. I love these poems, but I tend to love anything I’ve lived that long with, tended to, worked on. I have no outside readers, much as I need someone. Can husband or family be trusted to tell the truth or be willing to hurt my feelings if that’s what I need?
I have to make a choice between the five. I’m only going to enter two. How on earth do I pick? While I mull that over, I have people here stripping off the roofing from my house. You know, hammering, scrapping, talking. This, of course, had my dog barking and pacing, trying to ‘protect’ me, one of my cats hiding under the blankets, certain the life as she knows it is gone, the other cat on my lap wanting reassurance.
Oh, wait, I forgot about the car needing to be taken to be repaired, but as luck or love would have it, my husband took care of that. Forgot about the man coming to bid the rain gutters, but luck and love are still with me there, too.
It’s hard enough trying to pick a best poem—like picking a best child. Can’t really do it, but the noise and chaos doesn’t help. And on top of that are worries of my husband on the roof removing the air-conditioner to be replaced.
As I said, life goes on. It must. Writers must learn to live in that, even while the words won’t let them alone.
I’m determined to work at my writing, determined not to let this stress me (I’m not supposed to stress because of my MPGN. I’m supposed to watch my blood pressure. Make sure it doesn’t get too high, but how in Blue’s sake can I avoid days like these. Life must go on. And believe me, when it doesn’t—now that’s stress.)
So, here I am, at my desk Fleetwood Mac blaring from the stereo so I don’t hear what’s going on over my head, trying to write with one frightened cat huddled in my lap, another shivering beneath the blankets and a dog on patrol.
If I get nothing more done today than to pick the two poems to enter in the contest, I’ll have beat the odds. Don’t you think?
Thursday, May 7, 2009
April Reads
Every Breath You Take by Judith McNaught: I’ve been a fan of Judith McNaught since her book Whitney, My Love. This story was about Kate Donovan a Chicago restaurateur, and Mitchell Wyatt a wealthy businessman. McNaught is wonderful at characterization. A good romantic suspense.
A Lion Called Christian by Anthony Bourke and John Randall: Almost everyone has seen either on YouTube in 2008 or on the news the story of Christian the Lion. This book was originally published in 1971. It’s been revised and updated. So much has changed since them about the way we look and understand animals and the way the world works. Think about just how these two men got this lion-a department story for Blue’s sake. The story is very touching. The lion endearing, but for me the contrast between the way we look at animals now, compared to that time is both encouraging and depressing. We’ve come so far, but lost so much.
Anyway, I have always loved books about animals and had the best of that genre.
Blue Smoke and Murder by Elizabeth Lowell: I’ve been looking for an Elizabeth Lowell book for some time. It seemed to me as if it’s been too long, or, at least, longer than usual since a new one has hit the book shelves. This was typical for Lowell. Jill Breck saves the life of the son of two of St. Kilda Consulting’s operators. Soon after her great aunt is killed in a suspicious fire and Jill finds herself in the middle of a mystery.
The St. Kilda Consulting operators jump in to help Jill, sending Zach Balfour to help Jill with the dangers Jill’s been pushed into. Fine mystery.
The Third Circle by Amanda Quick: I just like the Amanda Quick books. Love her dialogue, her push-pull of the relationships Quick creates, love her characters. The character’s Quick creates are always intelligent, witty, and sexy. This story, a new Arcane Society novel, is about Leona Hewitt, a woman with a gift to work crystals and Thaddeus Ware a mesmerist and member of the secretive Arcane Society. Mystery, romance and face-paced, this story grabs you and keeps you reading.
Writing Life Stories, How to Make Memories into Memoirs, ideas into Essays, and Life into Literature by Bill Roorbach: This book inspired me. Originally, I started reading it and treating it as a workshop for writing my memoirs about the last several years—my mother’s breast cancer, my time as her primary caregiver and my own illness-MPGN.
At the time I was struggling to write anything and feeling the loss of not writing so profoundly, I was desperate to find anything to write. As I got more and more deeply into this book, I began writing everything–short stories, poems, essays(not novels, I couldn’t wrap my mind around all the pieces of a novel that you have to juggle and keep track of. It was just too big, overwhelming for me. In the middle of being sickest, overwhelmed was such a constant feeling I couldn’t deal with any more of it. Sadly, I still haven’t tried to tackle anything to do with a novel-Not a new one, not any of the old ones, not editing, not even re-reading them.)
Roorbach gives wonderful prompts, great encouragement and great ideas. His down to earth way is just the friend a writer needs-supportive, but not about to let you off the hook.
New and Selected Poems by Mary Oliver: I’ve tried to read a few poems each day for the month of April in honor of National Poetry Month. I picked Mary Oliver’s New and Selected Poems because I enjoyed other poem books by her. I like her emphasis and use of nature. She has a unique way of looking at things and saying things. I wanted to read poetry to inspire my own poems and this did. Still, I must say and to my surprise the book that has haunted me, made me excited to write poetry again and to seek out more of the same is Leaning into the Wind, Women Writing From the Heart of the West, edited by Linda Hasselstrom, Gaydell Collier and Nancy Curtis. I am still haunted by those poems and stories.
A Lion Called Christian by Anthony Bourke and John Randall: Almost everyone has seen either on YouTube in 2008 or on the news the story of Christian the Lion. This book was originally published in 1971. It’s been revised and updated. So much has changed since them about the way we look and understand animals and the way the world works. Think about just how these two men got this lion-a department story for Blue’s sake. The story is very touching. The lion endearing, but for me the contrast between the way we look at animals now, compared to that time is both encouraging and depressing. We’ve come so far, but lost so much.
Anyway, I have always loved books about animals and had the best of that genre.
Blue Smoke and Murder by Elizabeth Lowell: I’ve been looking for an Elizabeth Lowell book for some time. It seemed to me as if it’s been too long, or, at least, longer than usual since a new one has hit the book shelves. This was typical for Lowell. Jill Breck saves the life of the son of two of St. Kilda Consulting’s operators. Soon after her great aunt is killed in a suspicious fire and Jill finds herself in the middle of a mystery.
The St. Kilda Consulting operators jump in to help Jill, sending Zach Balfour to help Jill with the dangers Jill’s been pushed into. Fine mystery.
The Third Circle by Amanda Quick: I just like the Amanda Quick books. Love her dialogue, her push-pull of the relationships Quick creates, love her characters. The character’s Quick creates are always intelligent, witty, and sexy. This story, a new Arcane Society novel, is about Leona Hewitt, a woman with a gift to work crystals and Thaddeus Ware a mesmerist and member of the secretive Arcane Society. Mystery, romance and face-paced, this story grabs you and keeps you reading.
Writing Life Stories, How to Make Memories into Memoirs, ideas into Essays, and Life into Literature by Bill Roorbach: This book inspired me. Originally, I started reading it and treating it as a workshop for writing my memoirs about the last several years—my mother’s breast cancer, my time as her primary caregiver and my own illness-MPGN.
At the time I was struggling to write anything and feeling the loss of not writing so profoundly, I was desperate to find anything to write. As I got more and more deeply into this book, I began writing everything–short stories, poems, essays(not novels, I couldn’t wrap my mind around all the pieces of a novel that you have to juggle and keep track of. It was just too big, overwhelming for me. In the middle of being sickest, overwhelmed was such a constant feeling I couldn’t deal with any more of it. Sadly, I still haven’t tried to tackle anything to do with a novel-Not a new one, not any of the old ones, not editing, not even re-reading them.)
Roorbach gives wonderful prompts, great encouragement and great ideas. His down to earth way is just the friend a writer needs-supportive, but not about to let you off the hook.
New and Selected Poems by Mary Oliver: I’ve tried to read a few poems each day for the month of April in honor of National Poetry Month. I picked Mary Oliver’s New and Selected Poems because I enjoyed other poem books by her. I like her emphasis and use of nature. She has a unique way of looking at things and saying things. I wanted to read poetry to inspire my own poems and this did. Still, I must say and to my surprise the book that has haunted me, made me excited to write poetry again and to seek out more of the same is Leaning into the Wind, Women Writing From the Heart of the West, edited by Linda Hasselstrom, Gaydell Collier and Nancy Curtis. I am still haunted by those poems and stories.
Monday, May 4, 2009
May Godsends:
- quail calling “Where are yoooou?”
- thunder storms
- the green up
- early morning two-mile walks
- the sweet scent of mother’s white lilacs
- purple rock cress blooming in my rock wall
- the echo of mourning doves cooing to each other
- the sound of Rainbirds in the afternoon
- reading on the patio in the evening
- fresh asparagus
Friday, May 1, 2009
PAD Done
The PAD Challenge is over, done, finished. I made it. I wrote a poem for each prompt. That was my goal. Just write and submit one poem, every day.
I’m not saying every poem was my best. I got stuck on several prompts; simple hated some of Brewer’s prompts. I had a few chaotic weekends that almost sidetracked me. Life often didn’t co-operate, but you know, I think that was part of the point or lesson to be learned. Mine, anyway.
A twist on my own motto: Save yourself. Write anyway, I guess. See, I had to write regardless. It didn’t matter that I didn’t like the prompt for Day 8 or really didn’t want to go there with Day 9’s prompt. I had to write a poem-condense the chosen subject, find a place to start, begin and do.
I treated the month long challenge as I do NaNoWriMo month. I wrote. I got that poem done. Not Shakespeare, but a poem I could at least bear to have online for anyone to see. And so it went day by day. Some days I was ashamed of my efforts, cringed to put my work online.
For one thing everyone else’s poems were so good. Funny thing though, mine weren’t so bad and the prompts I hated most usually produced the best results from me. So, though I sometimes hated the process, the difficulty, I loved the result.
National Poetry Month was more than the PAD Challenge though. For me. I had decided to honor the month by reading poetry every day, carry a pocket poem each day, and do the PAD Challenge. I knew the Challenge would be hard, but I didn’t realize how much time I’d have to spend to do justice to it and myself.
Regrets—Yes. Oh, I will do the PAD Challenge next year for certain. I have produced the best work this last month as I have in a good long time—Poetry, essays and short stories, but I haven’t had time to complete them or get them out into the world because of time constraints. (April is also the beginning of spring—I wait for it all winter. Gardening begins and you’re not going to keep me out of the dirty or away from the garden centers.)
I didn’t carry a pocket poem with me—not one day. I regret that, because I wanted to leave a poem somewhere each day, thereby introducing poetry to who knows who. I’m going to try to do that next year and prepare for that by ‘collecting’ thirty poems through the year, typing them onto the computer in preparation. Next year all I’ll need to do is print them up, put them on cardstock and carry one with me each day. I only need to find three poems a month that I love. Doable.
To prepare for the PAD Challenge, I’m going to practice this next year—writing poetry. And I’ll gather words and ideas into a PAD file. With that and Robert Lee Brewer’s prompts, I expect to write better poems for next year’s challenge.
I do think the PAD challenge helpful for any writer—fiction, nonfiction, or poetry writer alike. We all need that kick in the pants, a challenge, a change, some fun some time. Put this on your calendar for next April and challenge yourself.
I’m not saying every poem was my best. I got stuck on several prompts; simple hated some of Brewer’s prompts. I had a few chaotic weekends that almost sidetracked me. Life often didn’t co-operate, but you know, I think that was part of the point or lesson to be learned. Mine, anyway.
A twist on my own motto: Save yourself. Write anyway, I guess. See, I had to write regardless. It didn’t matter that I didn’t like the prompt for Day 8 or really didn’t want to go there with Day 9’s prompt. I had to write a poem-condense the chosen subject, find a place to start, begin and do.
I treated the month long challenge as I do NaNoWriMo month. I wrote. I got that poem done. Not Shakespeare, but a poem I could at least bear to have online for anyone to see. And so it went day by day. Some days I was ashamed of my efforts, cringed to put my work online.
For one thing everyone else’s poems were so good. Funny thing though, mine weren’t so bad and the prompts I hated most usually produced the best results from me. So, though I sometimes hated the process, the difficulty, I loved the result.
National Poetry Month was more than the PAD Challenge though. For me. I had decided to honor the month by reading poetry every day, carry a pocket poem each day, and do the PAD Challenge. I knew the Challenge would be hard, but I didn’t realize how much time I’d have to spend to do justice to it and myself.
Regrets—Yes. Oh, I will do the PAD Challenge next year for certain. I have produced the best work this last month as I have in a good long time—Poetry, essays and short stories, but I haven’t had time to complete them or get them out into the world because of time constraints. (April is also the beginning of spring—I wait for it all winter. Gardening begins and you’re not going to keep me out of the dirty or away from the garden centers.)
I didn’t carry a pocket poem with me—not one day. I regret that, because I wanted to leave a poem somewhere each day, thereby introducing poetry to who knows who. I’m going to try to do that next year and prepare for that by ‘collecting’ thirty poems through the year, typing them onto the computer in preparation. Next year all I’ll need to do is print them up, put them on cardstock and carry one with me each day. I only need to find three poems a month that I love. Doable.
To prepare for the PAD Challenge, I’m going to practice this next year—writing poetry. And I’ll gather words and ideas into a PAD file. With that and Robert Lee Brewer’s prompts, I expect to write better poems for next year’s challenge.
I do think the PAD challenge helpful for any writer—fiction, nonfiction, or poetry writer alike. We all need that kick in the pants, a challenge, a change, some fun some time. Put this on your calendar for next April and challenge yourself.
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