Books

The greatest gift is the passion for reading. It is cheap, it consoles, it distracts, it excites.
-Elizabeth Hardwick

I was lucky. My parents read to me. Reading was not only encouraged, but also expected. Books were a priority, as were trips to the library.

And so, the sight of old books takes me back to my childhood. What is the one thing I can’t walk past at swap meets and antique fairs? Old books. Books with titles I grew up with, I consumed. Book that were my best friends.

I spent years trying to find an old set of The Junior Classics published by P.F. Collier and Son, copyright 1912. It is one of my most precious possessions. It took me over thirty years to find the set. It cost me $41.98 and worth every penny and hour of searching.

There has always been something addictive about old musty books—the mellow hard covers, the dog-eared, cream-colored pages, that well loved smell. Old books look lived in. They make a house, home to me. And nothing is better than finding an old book with writing in the margins. Like a subplot, those words tell me another story.

I have truly tried to control my addiction. I try to thin out my bookcases (I mean bookcases, not one but many) every now and then. It’s painful. How can I bring in more books when my bookcases are full? How do you toss my father’s copy of Miracle on 34th Street, (first edition), Best Stories of O’Henry, History and Rhymes of the Lost Battalion, or my mother’s College Typewriting (third edition), set of Heart Throbs (National Magazine, copyright 1905), my childhood’s Bambi and Bambi’s Children, My Friend Flicka, Black Stallion (all found at a swap meet as siblings have original).

I love a good story. I don’t care what media it comes to me: movie, book, music, poem. As you can imagine my office is stuffed with books, old and new. It is a love, a passion, an addiction. Read to a child—for them, for yourself. Read to them from your old, well-loved books. Start an addiction.

Random Thoughts

First thing every morning as I start writing I tear off yesterday’s Zen quote from my Zen Calendar. I always get behind on the weekends so when I read yesterday’s quote I had to laugh. Yesterday’s quote: I yam what I yam, and that’s all that I yam. —Popeye. Isn’t that just wonderful? Popeye was very wise. We are what we are, but it’s enough. Better than enough, it’s perfect.

That goes for our writing, too. We are enough as we are. Oh, we keep trying to improve our writing. In fact, we work hard at improving, but when we get that rejection, that tough critique we don’t take it personal. We take it as a guide to improve. But our best tool for good writing is being ourselves. Being passionate and true to our writing.

I’m on the last week of the poetry workshop I’ve been working on all month. This week we’re working on the natural world and awakening. It’s a subject that I can get into, because I’ve been writing about nature for many years. Still, the challenge is there.

And that is the very thing I have enjoyed and embraced most about both workshops I’ve taken this year. They’ve made me stretch my writing muscles. And I’ve gotten great feedback.

Melanie Faith does a great job critiquing my work. None of the feeling of being shredded by her suggestions, as I have felt before. So, it came as no surprise that she wrote a wonderful article for the November The Writer magazine titled The Art of The Critique. The article is concise and especially helpful for those put in the position to critique without know exactly how to do it. You should check it out.

I’ve always held back in critiquing RWA contests or other’s poems feeling thinking I’m not ‘good’ enough to do it and because I know how tender a writer can feel, I haven’t wanted to hurt anyone. And yet, above anything I know how important that analyzes is to improve the writing. You know, who am I to say what is good and what isn’t. But with this as a guide, I think I could, at least, give some helpful suggestions without hurting anyone’s feelings.

I’m real good at encouraging other writers but I’ve never felt I was someone who should be telling anyone how to do things. With this as my guide, I feel I could, at least, ask good questions, give good suggestions and I could do it in a constructive way. Anyone doing critiques should read this article.

Turn Negative into Positive

A lot of people are struggling this year. There’s been job loss, bank failures, pay cuts. A whole bucket full of negative. And for writers less opportunity, more rejection.

All that negative kind of breeds more, doesn’t it? It paralyzes creativity, energy. And—I hate it. I refuse to give into it. I demand a recount. There’s been good. Hasn’t there? Well, hasn’t there?
Like yesterday. The sun warm and golden, the smell of autumn—you know—wet leaves, warm soil. Just the sound of wading through my walnut leaves searching for nuts. And we’re connecting more, doing simple things like reading more, wasting less. We’re kinder and we’re being smarter.

As writers, we learn better, we improve our writing. We come out of the hard times better. We move forward, we stick with it. We hope. We help each other to see our strengths, our small successes, our competencies. We help each other through the disappointments and struggles and get back to work.

For the rest of this year, let’s help a least one other writer. Amazingly, it will serve to help ourselves. Help works that way. Let’s encourage one other writer go write their essay, short story, poem or book.

So, go write.

Hope

It’s been almost two years since I’ve opened many of my writing drafts. I’ve been taking a few minutes every day to make certain all my files have been converted—something I haven’t paid attention to for two years either (worse still—my computer crashed at the summit of my illness.)I’ve mentioned the reasons in previous blogs to death, but suffice to say, treatment and the way I felt—sometimes, once I started feeling up to write, I’d wake up with my head on the desk and no writing done—got in the way of my making much progress in my writing.

In the process, I’ve read a few of my old drafts of short stories, essays and poems. (Haven’t converted the novel files yet.) Quite a few were nearly done and ready to submit. Many needed work, some had been submitted and rejected, but I think still viable. This revisiting of my writing has actually upped my confidence. The writing is good and because I truly believe saleable work depends on rewrites, I know I could make it excellent.

Oh, I have drawbacks:

1. Not enough time-I’m still caring for an elderly parent which continues to take more time, the yard and house vying for my attention, meals to prepare, other interests and projects.
2. I get tired faster and I’m suppose to avoid stress.
3. No critique group, no real reader to catch problems I overlook
4. My office is in disarray. It needs purging and organizing. I’ve neglected it for two 5years now.

Despite all that, I feel ready to tackle all that and start on writing more than the poetry. Yet, I don’t want to lose all I’ve gained there either, so I’m going to move slow. Tackle the easiest rewrites first. Spend weekends when I can clearing out my office. All the while working on my poetry goals. It will be a challenge, but I’m up to it.

All this I do with hope. Hope to be able to do it. Hope something will be published. Hope I’ll stay healthy, but there’s nothing wrong with hope. In fact, hope is necessary. I know this because I’ve been hopeless and that’s no way to live.

Putting By

I love the light of autumn. The slant of the sun gilds everything. The light coming in my dining room window is most golden. Two walnut trees on my parking strip look lit inside. The magpie’s working them fly away with fat nuts as fast as they can. That’s all right, too, because I’ve already gathered my share.

I’ve always put by. For as long as I’ve been married, I’ve gathered basic supplies for winter. In the early years of my marriage, it was necessary as my husband worked for the railroad and lay-offs were inevitable.

Over the years, I’ve found the principle sound. I gather winter squash, carrots and potatoes to root cellar, put by a supply of paper towels, napkins and such, stock up on canned soup, tomatoes, jams,(or preserve them myself,) canned and dry milk, freeze or can vegetables, (I use to buy canned vegetables, but I’m suppose to avoid salt) stock up on hamburger, chicken, roasts, and medicine. I try to have enough of everything that no winter storm finds me without necessary supplies or sick without needed medicine.

This year this seems an especially smart idea. A minimum of two weeks of basics would take me past any critical problem, a little more would be even better.

I think the same principle applies to writing. Make sure you have a good supply of paper, notebooks, pens and printer ink. Have a book or two you’ve wanted to read on writing (sometimes you’re too sick to write or your tending a sick loved one) as well as a few fiction.
More importantly, gather a list, or better yet, several lists of things you want to write. I keep a running list each for my blog, poetry, essays, short stories and novels. I flag the most interesting (I use a movable flag. My interest might change). I keep those lists in a file next to my desk. I’ve found if I’m not getting anywhere with one thing, I’ll work on another. Soon enough, a solution to the first problem will come to me. I believe if you write, if you keep your fingers moving over that keyboard, you’ll get something solid.

I suffer from seasonal affective disorder, so I make sure I have a few inspirational articles near my desk. I spend a day clearing out the unnecessary from my office. I file and toss. That’s like refreshing a page. Clutter adds to depression and frustration.

Just as I don’t want to be trudging through a snowstorm because there isn’t anything in the house to fix for dinner, I want no excuse for not writing.

I felt so great yesterday. I actually felt 100%. Not 95%. 100%. By 2:00 pm, I wasn’t wanting or needing a nap. I haven’t felt like that since January 2008.

Today, too, I have energy. I’m up beat, happy, with only a few normal twinges of age. Fantastic.

Picked up the walnuts that dropped overnight with the wind and early morning showers. A
favorite fall activity. Nothing like squirreling away a stash of nuts for winter. I have to hurry before the magpies steal the nuts. This morning I beat them.

And a lovely morning. Warm, with a breeze. We’re supposed to have rain later tonight and tomorrow. I’m ready for a bit of weather, I think.

I’m in the second week of my poetry workshop. It’s proving to be a challenge. I think not only am I up to it, I think I need it. My mind is finally stretching past what I’m doing. I’m thinking of future writing more and more. The desire to write articles, short stories and work on my novels again whispers through my mind. It’s been so long since I even hoped I might be able to do those things again.

My writing has improved in many areas. The three workshops I’ve worked on this last year has improved my writing so much and produced some of the best work I’ve ever done.

The illness, finding a diagnosis, treatment, slowly getting better, returning to my writing (I grieved that loss). It feels as if that was a long time coming, but maybe, it just took the time it took. It’s funny; when I look back at my calendar, I can hardly believe it will only be two years come January. It seemed…such a big desert I crossed.

Maybe, this whole journey is the very thing that will push my writing to the level it needs to be. Things that happen in our lives temper us. A writer uses that to make her writing uniquely hers, hers alone. On this day, this bright autumn day I’ll grab that, add it to my stash, too.

Hard

A bull rider, a mere five-foot-ten, 160 pound cowboy looks at a 2000 pound animal and says, “I’m going to ride this bull and I’m going to do it for 8 seconds. And while I’m at it I’m going to do it over and over until I win the championship.” And he cowboy’s up. ( a cowboy’s way of saying, just do it.)

Spectators say he has try. To cowboys “try” is a combination of skill, determination, concentration and courage.

A drummer for a rock band loses an arm and determines to play his drums again—better than before. An award winning surfer girl loses an arm to a shark and has the courage to surf again. A biker comes back from the fight for his life against testicular cancer determined to win one of the most grueling races, the Tour de France, not once but six times, then tries again!

A successful actor breaks his neck and tells us, “Giving up is NOT an option.” And not only did he not give up, he fought to walk again, to have hope and give hope to others. (Oh and by the way I’ll change things.) He fought to change the way spinal injuries were looked at and treated.

What has this to do with writing? Only this. Writing is hard. We hear it from those giving us writing advice. We hear it from struggling writers. We say it ourselves. We say it when faced with the blank screen, when receiving harsh rejections, when suffering from a cement wall of writer’s block. Writing is hard. A person has to be nuts to do it. There is so much struggle. Coming up with ideas, interruptions, day jobs, discouragement, rejections, just getting your butt in the chair and staying there.

Writing is hard and to make a living at it is even harder, that is, if(and that is a big if) you ever get published.

All hard.

Hard…

The hardihood of Bethany Hamilton thinking she would surf again. (Let alone get back in the water.)

Rick Allen, drummer for Def Leppard, playing drums again. (And his band saying, OK, We can do that and be better than ever. Someone having faith in you does make hard easier, doesn't it?)

I think of the sheer audacity of Christopher Reeve. Think of it. He didn’t strike me as a man who would have made such a statement without knowing full well what he was up against. He knew it was going to be hard, just NOT giving up, let alone marching forward on a crusade with flags flying and trumpets blaring.

He knew every step of his journey would be hard won.

Every step. Breathing, working, optimism, advocacy, pushing research forward, having and giving hope probably the hardest of all.

Hard.

It would be.

It was.

He did NOT give up. Never. Not even when a hand reached down for him. I believe angels need skill, determination, concentration and courage.

Same for Bethany Hamilton, once she realized her arm was gone, once she knew she would live. She had to face her future and where surfing would be in it. It would be hard to even try to surf again. Adjustments would have to be made and some, many would say it was impossible. And...if she failed. That would be hard.

But really, just hard.

She loved surfing. Lived for it.

So, hard, it would be.

And hard, it was.

Rick Allen had to know it was going to be hard learning to use the drums again. It meant special equipment, translating what he knew to a different way of playing and expressing himself. It meant a lot of work and dedication.

I think of Reeve’s words often when I hear a writer say how hard the writing is. You see, “Giving up is NOT an option.” implies choice. Options. And it is just that. A choice. Once the choice is made the rest is just follow through.

I hear it all the time. I’ve said it, plenty. Writing is hard. It’s suppose to be. Writing is work. Our chosen work. Work should be…just that. Work. Hard. If it was easy the words that move us…wouldn’t. Hard is a rock tumbler polishing the stones of greatness.

You have a choice: to write or not to write. That’s all. A choice. The hard comes with it when you choose to write.

But from hard comes gems, comes precious, comes angels.

Discouragement-Remember the wisdom of H. Joseph Chadwick: If Columbus had given up and turned back when the going got tough, no one would have blamed him. No one would have remembered him either.

September Reads

Summer of Two Wishes by Julia London: Macy and Finn Lockhart’s story is maybe too current not to be a bit uncomfortable for me to read. London does a great job of telling the story of their early love. How they struggled to build a horse ranch in Texas, then Finn joins the army.

Right there I’m struggling with understanding Finn a bit, mostly because I never did feel the passion a man would have to feel to do this when he loved his wife and farm so much. Oh, I understand defending this country and the feelings that go along with that. I’m married to a Marine. I’m just saying I didn’t get this from Finn, so I didn’t understand why he went, especially as strongly as Macy was against it. Oh, I understand stubbornness, but this just didn’t ring as true as I needed.

After Macy gets the devastating news the Finn had been killed by a roadside bomb in Afghanistan it takes her three years to pull herself together, sell the ranch and marry again. Wyatt Clark, a land broker, is appealing enough, but he too, seems drawn a bit lightly.

Then the news that Finn is alive and coming home breaks and Macy is torn between two husbands. A great and interesting conflict, but through the whole book I was frustrated by the characters. Macy was wishy-washy, Finn-inconsistent and Wyatt, so much of a jerk sometimes I couldn’t understand Macy every falling in love with him. Some of that would have shown its self before now, I think.

Truthfully, though I enjoyed the read—London does a great job of dialogue and writing the scenes, but I had a hard time liking any of the characters much. The conflict seemed manipulated and I got frustrated with the three characters.

For this type of story, I would recommend LaVyrle Spencer’s Twice Loved. Though a historical, all three characters involved are loved so much that just the reading of the story tears at your own heart.

Red’s Hot Honky-Tonk Bar by Pamela Morsi: I have loved Morsi’s writing since she first started writing. She has the most beloved, quirky characters. They’re just like me. Wonderful, nice people with common, everyday problems they handle in the best, flawed way as they can.

This story was no exception. Red Cullens is not the typical grandma type. Not at all. She owns a Honky-Tonk bar, sports an armadillo tattoo on her sweet little armadillo (you know what I’m referring to) and tight jeans. Now, suddenly, she is responsible for her young grandchildren. She hardly knows them and hardly knows how to take care of them. She has rowdy friend, she works late and lives in a tiny apartment above her bar. Not only that, but she has a young fiddle player she’s dallying with.

This story just puts a smile on your face as you read it. You’ll love Red, you’ll love Cam, her lover, you’ll love the two kids and you’ll love how Red faces the challenges in her life. This book is a sweet, heartbreaking story of second changes.

Cloud Nine by Luanne Rice: This is another story about second chances. Sarah Talbot has beaten brain cancer against all odds. Every minute, every new experience fills her with a joy she can hardly contain. A friend’s birthday gift brings to her what she never could have hoped for. A new love. There was much in this book that touched me. I was never as close to dying as Sarah was, never as sick, either. Although, I never want to feel like I did, so this story touched me. I know a little of what Sarah was feeling.

Maybe that was why I felt almost reluctant to keep reading. It was a very tender book. Almost too tender.

October Godsends:

Quote on my Zen calendar for today: It takes a certain maturity of mind to accept that nature works as steadily in rust as in roses. —Esther Warner Dendel

• A gold haze gilding everything
• The moon playing tag with ghostly clouds
• Crisp air and the breeze murmuring freeze
• Fall pansies
• The scent of dry, neon leaves tumbling down the street like children just let out of school
• Magpies squabbling over the walnuts dropping from my trees
• Pumpkin piles at the grocery stores
• My own pile of winter squash by the front door
• Worn-soft sweatshirts
• Fireplaces

Today, I begin a new workshop Theme Power!: Poetic Exploration in Memory, Love & Longing, Loss, and The Natural World & Awakening with Melanie Faith. I’m excited to do another workshop with Melanie. I think some of my best work I did in her last workshop so I’m hoping for even better things. It’s a busy month and I’ll be pushing myself just a bit.

That might be a mixed blessing. I’ve been so careful, worrying of stirring that giant sleeping inside me—mpgn. The lower case letters are on purpose. I’ve tried every way to minimize this disease. Visualizing my tough, little kidneys beating the heck out of mpgn. In my head, I pile the letters to look like some strange monster, then visualize my kidneys kickboxing the devil out of the monster, first, with the help of prednisone and aspirin—Now, just me and aspirin boxing gloves.

I’ve kept stress as minimally as I can(I’m a nervous kind of gal). I’ve tried not to pressure myself, but as I go into October, there are things I want so to do. I have a surprise I’m working on, and Christmas, of course. And this year is my year for all the family home for Thanksgiving.

I have soooo much to be thankful for. I really want a wonderful, perfect day. Yet, I know I can’t do as I have before. Luckily, I have a great family willing to help as they can. It’s just that I tend to try to do too much. It’s hard reining in my natural tendencies, but I will try.
So, I intend to go to my desk every day, open a vein, write wonderful poems and do it with as much Zen mindset as I can.