Practice

Learning a musical instrument teaches things way beyond music. When I started my kids with music lessons (guitar, keyboard and drums) I sensed this. In those days there wasn’t much said about that aspect, at least not that I read or heard. I think I sensed it mostly because of my own complete failure to stick with music lessons. I wanted to play music. I love music. I always have.

I was brought up in a house filled with music. My father sang and reminisced about the quartet he sang in when he was young. And my mother played piano. I didn’t know this until I was maybe, ten, when my father brought home a piano.

I don’t know that it was bought for my mother. I think the decision was as much for my brother as my mother. He wanted to be in his high school choir and there were try-outs. That was the first time I realized my mother had talents beyond the home. I knew she was the best cook, sewed wonderful clothes for me and my sister, knit beautifully, was organized and frugal. She kept the house immaculate and instilled in her three kids a love for reading. But surprise to me, my mother had this other life, this other talent. (Imagine how I felt when I learned she could type and do shorthand with the best.)

I still remember the first time she sat down to play that second-hand piano. I don’t know if my jaw dropped, but my mind gasped. I wanted to play like her. I just didn’t realize what that meant. Practice. And every stinking day, whether I wanted to or not. (I didn’t want to. I was much too busy playing make-believe, reading and making up my own stories.)

I didn’t understand that skill and genius is more than talent. Talent only gets you so far. Luck and opportunity helps, sure, but what really tips the scale is practice. Talent isn’t passed down in the genes but in the mindset.

I read an article in the Dec.2008 Reader’s Digest titled, A Talent for Genius,” about Malcolm Gladwell’s book, Outliers: The Story of Success (Little, Brown), about this subject. Gladwell figures it takes 10,000 hours of practice to become what he calls an outlier.

Can you imagine? 10,000 hours. I learned from failing that if I wanted to do something well, I had to put in the time. That was one of the things I hoped my kids learned when I signed them up for music lessons.

And though they never knew, every time I took them to lessons, made them practice before they could go outside to play I wasn’t hoping I was raising Mozart, Eric Clapton or Ringo Starr. I was hoping my kids learned that anything you wanted to do well takes work, but it was worth it. The work was rewarding and fun, when you stopped fighting it. But more than that, I was teaching myself that lesson, too. I had things I would have liked to do besides take them to lessons or nag them to practice, but nothing more important.

I learned that lesson too. I don’t know if I’ve put in 10,000 hours practicing my writing yet, but I’m working on it every day.

Haunt Spot

On the way to retreat last week, we stopped at the Kozy Café in Echo, UT. We’ve eaten there many times over the years. The halibut tips were wonderful, (no longer on the menu). When you walk through the door you step into a 50’s café, red bar stools, dingy linoleum and all. Great, friendly service. I thought the radio blaring loudly all of a sudden strange but it’s an old café.
As I was paying for breakfast I saw a stack of papers. I read anything I can get my hands on and anything with information or details catches my eyes. This time I found a goldmine when I picked up one of the papers.

I was surprised to learn the Kozy Café was haunted. Check out this website. http://hauntspot.com/ Click on Utah.

Retreat

I’ve been on retreat (my POV)/fishing trip (my husband’s POV). My retreat was extremely successful, my husband’s fishing trip not so much so. I tell him he only said we were going fishing, not catching, but somehow my comment just gets me a dirty look.

It took some time for me to learn to get the most out of a camping trip, but now, my intent is to relax, renew, recharge. I take notes, take pictures, do nothing, sleep, eat, walk and fish. While I fish, I let my mind drift. I daydream. I don’t give a damn whether I catch a fish or not. I’d just as soon not.

I let the lapping water sooth away all the ragged edges, take note of every detail of the landscape, smell campfires, eat s'mores, and watch wildlife. Everything slows down. I read. A lot. Writer’s Digest and the Writer, books and magazines.

On my retreats I end up with tons of ideas, observations, poem footprints, short story outlines, novel ideas and enthusiasm. It is one of the best things I do for my writing.

For a long time I wasted my vacations or camping trips. I didn’t realize the goldmine I was passing up. With just a bit of pre-thought any outing can stir your writer’s imagination. Always, always have pen and paper, digital recorder, laptop—something to get things down on, then determine to pay attention. Simple really, but so vital for a writer.

Your Journey

On My Journey

Everyone’s journey through life takes its own path. We plant the path ourselves, as we go. What I’ve learned, what I am learning is that this is my journey. Only mine. I have to make my own choices and take responsibility. I can’t let anyone else do it. Oh, I guess I could, and maybe, those choices would be ‘for the best.’ But—would that be my life?

A person’s choices don’t always make sense to anyone else, but I’ve found that from that person’s POV (point of view) they make all the sense in the world.

Honestly, how many times have you watched someone and scratched your head wondering why in stretch pants they did what they did. Money choices, life choices, careers choices. We see it every day. I’ve learned this past year, it’s all about POV.

We have no way of knowing just what another person is going through, what battles they’re waging, what crisis they maybe facing. (That’s just why we should be kinder to those we encounter every day) We writers are suppose to understand POV. For me, this thought helps in getting POV right in my writing.

On Dithering

I’m not use to feeling as vulnerable as I have this last year. I’ve hated that feeling since my diagnosis. I’m not saying I’ve never felt vulnerable. Of course I have, like everyone. When I’m sick, when I’m lonely, when I’ve had something I’ve written rejected I feel vulnerable. But this new feeling of vulnerability is different, more profound, more uncomfortable. I've never had to depend so heavily on others before. (I don't like that. Oh, I like helping others, but not so much accepting help. I think that's misplaced ego.) Maybe, too, it has to do with mortality, maybe with the realization that things might not go as I always thought.

This vulnerability has shaken my trust in myself. I hate that. I don’t exactly understand why. I’m trying to because I have always been a questioner and person who needs reasons and answers. (Something I’ve learned this year. Sometimes there isn’t an answer and you have to live with that.) What I do understand is my judgment, my decision-making skills have had a sea change. I question everything differently, from a different perspective. I hesitate when I never have before, try weighing risk, importance, long-term effect with the care of a scientist. (Do I think that kind of scrutiny might prevent something bad from happening?) Spontaneity is a struggle. (Not a good thing in a writer or artist of any kind.)

I spent so dang much time dithering about last year that I got sick of the whole thing before I could make up my mind. I dithered about taking a writing class, getting a new kitten, shoes, a Kindle(glad I bought that. I’ll do a product review on the Kindle soon) for so long I was heartily sick of all the thoughts scurrying round and round in my head. The yes and no, the maybe. The this class, that class, which class. The it’s too soon. Why not? The buy this, don’t.

Why? Why was it been so hard for me to make a decision? Nothing drastic or fatal would happen no matter which way I went. Why put so much importance on simple decisions anyway? After the scare we’d been through, after wondering if I’d ever feel well and normal again. And maybe in that statement is the answer.

How quickly everything changes. And that was the thing that had me. Plan all you want, but in an instant everything can change and all the planning in the world can’t help you or change the fact that sometimes bad things just happen.

What it comes down to is living your life the best you can. Making choices that support what is important to you. Each person has their own problems, sorrows and goals. What looks like a mistake to one person, might be the very thing the next person needs.

Trust my journey despite the challenges. Embrace it. That’s what I’m learning to do.

May Reads

Just Breathe by Susan Wiggs: I’ve been reading Susan Wiggs for years and have always enjoyed her books. Just Breathe was especially good. The protagonist, Sarah Moon, has a wonderful wit and writes a syndicated comic strip but some things just aren’t funny. Like her husband’s infidelity. As Sarah Moon navigates through a shattered marriage, pregnancy she keeps her humor. I love how Wiggs write about family, friends and all the gritty parts of life. Her characters are wonderful and so real. I recommend this book but with a warning to have tissues close at hand.

Death Angel by Linda Howard: I started reading Linda Howard with her first book, A Lady of the West. That book and Angel Creek are two of my favorite Western Historical. I wish she still wrote them, but she writes whatever she puts her pen to so beautifully, I can’t complain. This was a surprise though. The protagonist Drea Rousseau begins as a not so lovable, opportunist, but right quick I started rooting for her. I think that speaks to Howards carefully crafted characters. When Drea decides to ditch her boyfriend, a drug lord, Rafael Salinas she stirs up his anger. He’s not going to let that go and sends a hit man after her. This book is dark and intriguing but also about second chances.

If I Could Speak In Silk by Judy Johns: I met Judy Johns in a novel writing class. I loved her writing. She wrote descriptive, edgy, funny scenes. I always wanted more of everything I read of hers. She also won every writing contest I ever competed in and deserved to. Her writing was just good. When I heard she’d had a poem book published I had to have it. I loved it the first time I read it, but even more so this time. I read If I Could Speak In Silk again as I’ve been making a point to read poetry every day and I remembered how much I liked this book.
The rereading did not disappoint. And I feel a little extra joy opening the first page and seeing her note and signature. Johns writing is sparse and potent. Each poem read makes my heart feel cradled in her hands. She has insight and humor. Her poems are personal, yet universal. All reasons why I love her.

Family Honor by Robert Parker: Parker is always good. In this first ‘Sonny’ book he’s great. The dialogue, which is my favorite thing about Parker’s writing, is as good as always and Sonny is a lovable protagonist, smart, honest and good. If you like Parker and good mysteries, this series is a good bet.

The Art and Craft of Poetry by Michael J. Bugeja: I bought this book because it is the book used in Writer’s Digest’s Poetry Workshop. I wanted to read through it and study the book in preparation to taking the workshop. This is a guidebook through the journey of writing and reading poetry. Helpful, practical advice fills the pages. Bugeja has tricks and suggestions to improve your poetry and includes wonderful examples. I think this book should be in every poet’s reference library. For me the best part was the chapter on generating ideas for poetry.

Act Like a Lady, Think Like a Man by Steve Harvey. I enjoyed not only the humor but the spot on advice about how a man thinks. This is a book I would recommend to women in the dating world. I read it out of curiosity and I can see how some of this information would have helped.

Poetry Healing

I had a doctor’s appointment yesterday. A check-up. I’m feeling disgustingly great. Blood pressure perfect. (Even at the doctor’s office. Now, that’s something.) Lab’s nearly normal. Now comes the scary part. The doctor is weaning me off the prednisone. The frightening part, MPGN could come back once I’m off the medicine. I’m not going to entertain that thought. I’m better. Can’t say I’m cured but I’m better. My kidneys are working fine. I’m blessed.

As those who read my blog know, since April I have immersed myself in poetry. I’ve always had poetry in my life. As a child there was no way to avoid it. Both parents where voracious readers and read to us kids all the time. Both loved poetry.

For several years I’ve wanted to take a poetry workshop. I finally started one just after I finished the Poem A Day Challenge at Writer’s Digest.

After I started my recovery from MPGN, I struggled to start writing again. The meds I was on and my weakness messed with my mind. I think it was one of the lowest points in the whole experience when I’d sit at my desk words crowding my head but I couldn’t get them to my fingers, to the screen.

I cried many tears wondering if I’d lost my writing. (Who I am.) I decided I’d write a memoir of my experience. Record my struggles, my illness(being it was so rare, someone might get something from my experience) That got my fingers going, gave me the simple goal of remembering, going through appointment books, medical records, etc, got my mind reaching, stretching. Still I struggled. I just hated dwelling on the whole experience. I wanted to move on—Go Forward. (Christopher Reeves Foundation’s motto. One that has pulled me through many things over the years. I’ve admired him from the moment he was paralyzed, loved his books. Admire him even more now after being sick but going through nothing like he did.)

I hated talking about the illness other than about my gratitude. I felt so blessed to be getting better I just couldn’t seem to get my heart into thinking about what we’d been through. I wanted to appreciate my good health, thank all who prayed and supported us. Forget the bad stuff. Maybe later, when there is some distance, I’ll see a way to write it down, help someone else going through it, but for now… I hate talking about myself illness wise or telling sob stories. I haven’t figured out a good way to tell the story without sounded too woe-is-me. I know there is a way and when I find it, I’ll go with it, but for now, I’m struggling with too much raw emotion and uncertainty about the future. I want to move forward.

I knew I couldn’t go back to writing my western historical just yet. I couldn’t get excited about that. And I knew I couldn’t keep track of all the facts, all the threads of character, setting, plot, research necessary to write a good novel. I know someday I’ll come back to my novels and be the better for this break.

Thank moon and stars for this blog. It got my mind and fingers working together. It kept me in the writing. It gave me purpose. And then there is the poetry.

Writing poetry seems to be the thing that fills me with joy and calmness. I feel a healing going on in my bruised spirit. I need that. I’ve felt betrayed. Sounds funny, but it’s true. Betrayed by my body and by life. We forget that live can turn on a pickle. Where everything changes and all the carefully made plans go down the drain with the pickle juice.

Yet, blessings have been piled on me. I know this. I think of this every single day and feel such gratitude.

They say you are just where you need to be at any given moment. I think it’s true. I’m right where I’m supposed to be and got here just as I was meant to. I’m supposed to be working on my poetry. Whether I get anything published or not doesn’t matter. The workshop, the practice of reading and writing poetry is improving all my writing. I feel a renewed passion, an excitement and a sense of doing good work. What more could I hope for?

Synchroncity

No rhyme or reason why something touches a cord with me. Gets me thinking, wanting to blog my thoughts. Yesterday, it was an e-mail from Writer’s Digest advertizing a new workshop. The introduction mentioned synchronicity. You know, preparation slamming into significant serendipity. A case of ‘when the student is ready the teacher will come.’

According to the Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary, synchronicity is the coincidental occurrence of events and esp. psychic events. (As similar thoughts in widely separated persons or mental image of an unexpected event before it happens) that seems related but is not explained by conventional mechanisms of causality.

Over my years of writing I’ve had this happen many times while researching a book, poem, or short story. Someone or something shows up, seemingly out of the blue, related to my research, while I’m doing something completely unrelated. Might simply be a case of—if you look for it you’ll find it, but I suspect it’s more because I am open to the subject.

I think that is part of being prepared as a writer—being open-eyed, childlike, in awe of everything. Question everything and everyone. That’s my policy.

I’m often accused of asking too many questions (my father called me Doubting Thomas because even after I should have outgrown it, I asked, why, about darn near everything. Drove him nuts. As the mother of inquisitive children, I understand.) I admit questions still pop into my mind, first thing. I question everything. When I was younger, I kept those questions to myself. My father’s admonishment and my own natural shyness tempering my curiosity. I felt it was a flaw of character.

No longer.

I think, I know, I was born to be a writer. I was made, meant to write about the world around me in some capacity. A questioning mind is a good thing. Always was. It makes for the student being ready when the teacher arrives.

Prepare for synchronicity. Question everything. Learn all you can. It will make your writing richer, fuller, better.

June Godsends:

• The taste of a June morning after a thunderstorm
• The first roses
• Fresh cut lettuce (Cook’s spring mix-yum)
• Tiger Swallowtail on hot pink dianthus
• Reading on the patio in the evening
• House Finch raising chicks in a hanging geranium pot
• Black-cap chickadees calling fee-bee to each other as they enter the birdhouse we furnished them
• Early morning sunlight glinting off the bottle tree
• Sandals
• Common yellow and orange marigold edging the vegetable garden