Thoughts

The morning began with a milky sky, warmer than it’s been for months. Temporary spring. Snow is predicted for tomorrow. I’m at my desk, despite the pull from outside. I’m writing. I’ve sifted through notes written on odd sized scratch paper I keep in my essay file, looking for something to write for my blog. It’s been an eye-opening activity given the previous few days. I have found what I needed for not only my writing but for advice I’ve been asked for.

Thoughts: Be prepared to make bad mistakes. In order to learn, you must make the mistakes.

I’ve been helping my daughter-in-law. A lot of frustrations, advice, opinions later and I’ve come to the conclusion that there is a hundred ways of doing things. No real right or wrong way. There is only the way we find that works for us best. I think this applies very much to writing advice also. I’ve seen this with gardening advice, too.

It is the process of weeding through all the advice to find to our own best way that is painful, frustrating, discouraging. Discouragement is the thing that can derail you. Fight it at all cost. (A TiGi saying: Discouragement is a sneak snake.)

We learn more from mistakes than we ever do from successes. Mistakes are painful, set things back. That’s all right. Embrace them anyway. Mistakes are rarely life-threatening and always there are things to learn from them. Begin again. Correct mistakes. The end result is worth it.

Thoughts: Each road to success takes its own direction.

I’ve come to think life’s derails happen to slap us to the side of the face and redirect us, so we can figure out exactly what’s important to us. Success, reaching for our dreams is not a straight line. That’s a good thing. And sometimes we find a different dream, a better dream.

The road for my writing has been bumpy. I’ve been stuck, veered wildly off course, hit potholes, but I keep writing. That’s what really matters. I keep writing. I keep trying. Baby steps and perseverance is the thing I can count on. The only thing I have control of.

Crocuses bloom every spring, too, despite the winter.

Story

Sometimes, I feel I am an archeologist digging for story. I search story in antique stores, swap meets, restaurants, as I wait at doctor’s office, hospitals and grocery store lines. Sometimes, it feels I watch life as it unfolds, removed, observant, but not involved. Sometimes, when life is coming at me fast, I become too involved to find a moment to write. At those times, I excavate memory.

I listen to others stories, tucking them in memory to add to my own experiences. This is where my stories, poems and novels come from. This jumble of finds, this amalgamate of incidents I want to share.

All my life, people: strangers, friends, my son’s friends, people I meet in the flu shot line, tell me their stories. My middle son often commented this and wondered on the reason. Sometimes, I’ve wondered, too. But as the years pass and it happens again and again, I’ve decided it’s because I listen. Not politely, but with a taking it in attitude. Everyone wants to be heard. I hear. It is a story. I love stories. I want to be told a story. I want to write a story. A story that I laugh, cry, wonder about. A story that recalls memories, hurts, successes.

I read books for stories. I read poems for stories. I look for stories everywhere.

Stories happen. They happen everywhere: A grandchild is born after several miscarriages, a gloomy outlook, a difficult but miracle pregnancy and c-section. A beautiful baby whose parents had gone through so many setbacks. The first night: The baby struggles to breath, the parents don’t know what’s wrong or what to do. They try to suction out the baby’s mouth and call for help. Fear crashes into the day’s miracle.

But it’s only a minor glitch. A common little problem. Tell that to the heart dropping to the gut, the knees that can no longer hold as the flash of adrenaline burns away. I listen with a heart clenched remembering those times. The times when my children scared me witless. As my son tells me of the first night of his daughter’s life, I remember exactly that heart-stopping fear, that sink to the floor relief. I remember parenthood and my babies’ stories.

I turn away to hide tears because I know this is only the first such scare. I turn away because it was this son who gave me my most horrific scare and I don’t want to tell him that that heart-high feeling isn’t really ever going to go away, not even when she’s over thirty. No, I just slip the whole thing into my memory for a story and listen.

Working

I’ve been working pretty intensely on short stories to submit to Woman’s World and Country Woman, both magazines I’ve published with before. Years ago, there were plenty of women’s magazines featuring short stories. Now, these are the only two I see on the magazine stands in my area. Both require only 750-1000 word stories, more flash fiction than anything. Both require positive, upbeat stories.

I’ve been working on a few stories I wrote before I got sick. The word requirement has changed in the last two years, so I’ve been eliminating words in my existing stories. Surprisingly, that has improved the story. That is an old lesson I am relearning. Tighten my work. A blog of interest to anyone interested in writing for Woman’s World: http://womansworldstyle.blogspot.com/ Very helpful and interesting.

I’m also working on two short stories for the Family Circle Fiction Contest and some poems for a chapbook. I’ve mentioned all this before and I’ve mentioned the desire to begin again on a novel. Yet, I don’t pursue that, nor do I work on editing those books I have filed away. That nags at me and ideas for new novels nag me. Yet—

If you’re not quite sure what to do, don’t do anything yet; more will be revealed. —Toas

And this is how I feel: Just like that nut (I know, I know, but seriously…) hanging in my walnut tree with the little red-capped Downy Woodpecker incessantly tapping on the shell. The nut just doesn’t get it. It just hangs there, without falling, without breaking, not going with the program at all. I hope more will be reveal...soon.

Maybe, this journey has been to find this story that is tap-tap-tapping at my mind and heart. I feel I know it. I feel as if I just need to brush the bead curtain away (hey, I am a child of the 60’s, you know.) Somewhere, in there ( I don’t really know where-head, heart, memory) there is a story that hurts and heals and is the reason I write. I just haven’t found it. I hear echoes or shadows though and they keep me searching.

I’ve found some wonderful things, some good things, some terrible things to write about, but there is something else. Something wanting to see the page. I know it, I feel it. I search it. I try to stay open for it.

February Reads:

The Writer’s Portable Therapist by Rachel Ballen P.H.D. : There is so much help in this book. Encouragement, inspiration, suggested writing exercises, quotes, contemplations. It is a book I'll keep close and refer to often. It covers every writing quirk I know of and gives sound, make-sense action to take. Try it.

Rewriting Monday by Jodi Thomas: Pepper Malone moves to Bailey, Texas to hide out from a former lover whose family wants her dead. She just wants to get by, write for the newspaper in town, owned by Mike McColloch, and stay alive. But that grows harder when the newspaper is targeted by someone with a grudge against the newspaper. Things get more complicated than Pepper wants when she is drawn to the newspaper’s owner.

I liked this book. I’ve read most of Thomas’s books. I like her writing. Mostly, she writes western historical. I was worried (I always worry for two reasons. I hate to see a good historical writer leave that genre because I’m finding so little in that line anymore, and often ,the things I like about the writer’s writing doesn’t seem to translate to the new genre) that she wouldn’t be as good writing contemporary, but she proved she handles it with as much skill and a lot of humor. And it is not strained humor, but low-key humor that sprouts naturally from the character. I enjoyed this book very much

Pieces of Sky by Kaki Warner: I’ve praised this book on my blog right after reading it. I am waiting anxiously for the next book, hoping it arrives just before vacation, so I can spend more time reading. Maybe, I’ll be able to read it straight through.

This book had everything I love about western historical: details of the old west, strong characters, fight for survival, outlaws to hate, western scenery I love, a heroine to root for, a hero to fall in love with, excellent writing, dialogue that was sharp and interesting, description that was simply perfect. Kaki Warner is my new favorite writer. And the best part: it was a nice big book.

Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout: There were thirteen short stories, each linked by Olive Kitteridge, a junior high-school teacher. It’s a story of an ordinary life and the many ways that life changes, touches others, helps and hurts those around that life. Each snippet of this woman’s life has this bittersweet touch, this truth that hits you as gentle as a reflex hammer. I experienced an actual jerk of awareness and sometimes memory. It had so much emotion of everyday life I recognized that sometimes it hurt to read, but it was uplifting and revealing and you will not forget what you read.

Flaws and Chaos

I guess it doesn’t matter how you get there, but—that you get there. And I am there…again. Back to realizing that no matter how imperfect my days, how chaotic the struggle to write…I write. I write on. My quote: “Save yourself. Write anyway” has its roots in the fabric of my days since I began writing.

Two reality checks: Bill Shannon dances on crutches. (Story featured in Standard Examiner Go! Section March 12, 2010) He has a degenerative disease in his hip joints, but he dances—and skateboards. He took what he loves and what life’s handed him and he—dances. He calls it building his own pathways.

An article in the April 17, 2010, Woman’s Day titled Life’s Not Perfect, about wabi sabi—embracing imperfection. Our lives are changing all the time and chaos sometimes happen…and mistakes. Things just don’t go according to plan. As I read this article, I remembered reading what the author said, that Japanese artists often left mistakes or flaws in pottery or art to remind them, even nature isn’t perfect.

These two things found me after the appointment-making fiasco last week. Perfect timing, too, as two mistakes (small mistakes and some would say insignificant, but I tend to obsess) I made this weekend haunt me. My frustration with life interrupting my writing haunts and nag and shame me.

I mean, really, sometimes life just happens and if it didn’t what would I write about? I’ve come to the conclusion it’s more about me than the interruptions. Maybe it is easier to blame that kind of stuff than saying I’m not working hard enough, or I’m trying, not doing, or any number of problems more likely than just the time issue.

Life just spins along and stuff happens. I forget. I get caught up in producing words and forget that to have something worthwhile to write about, to find the kind of stories I most want to write—simple, homespun, life-affirming stories— I must be out in the world living.

I need to learn to accept that life is not without flaws and chaos. My life might not always be conducive to a writing life, but it’s my life—and I am a writer. That’s who and what I am. I can’t lie to myself about that fact. I just have to find a way to be me in what life dishes out. And maybe, that’s another story.

Life

I’ve been in a funk. Frankly an ugly, ornery, selfish funk. So, I searched my yard for any…any small sign of spring. What good would that do? I don't know. But..., I found birds checking out my birdhouses. My husband and I got busy repairing the old birdhouses with new metal plates for around the doors and straightening up the old plates still lopsided on the houses. WE’ve had tenants for five years now.

I found purple pansies blooming, daffodils emerging, and yellow crocuses. It was worth the search. The sun has some heat in it. The dark rich garden soil is exposed and I itch to get my fingers in it, but the wind is bitter. I know it's too early, but soon... and that thought may hold me for a while.

Obstacles and discouragement have dogged me more relentlessly than ever. Staying positive is one of the biggest challenges of writing for me. Things beyond my control have, quite frankly, derailed me. I try to have a good outlook but right now, that's difficult. And worse, it is mostly just life. It’s not as if not everyone doesn’t have to deal with the same things.

It's been one hell of a week…No, month…Actually, the last five years, but even before…

I'm as frustrated as all get out. I don't think it would be so bad if this wasn't the way it has gone for most of the years I've been writing.

Truth: my writing is not important to the well being of the family. Not for money, certainly. Never has been. It is only important to me. No one waits for it. No one needs it. How can you justify 'sacrificing' time when it doesn't make economic sense or time sense or emotional sense? So, how much do you sacrifice? You certainly can't jeopardize jobs, health, business.

I understand that. I know that. I've always known that, but every time I give up another day of writing, I die a little. I don’t want to. I hate that that’s what it feels like because that seems…is, so selfish. My family, my husband are the most important things. But the truth is…I feel as though little parts of me are being cut away. And sometimes I feel as if I've lost so much, I'll never be able to make anything worthwhile out of what is finally left.

And I lose fight, too. I just sometimes can't dig up the energy and spirit to keep trying. It feels so hopeless and…

Latest example: The end of February, I had a dentist appointment and unfortunately, had a cavity. They made me an appointment to get it filled. “I think I have an appointment that day.”
“Well, if you do, call us and we'll change it.”

Sure enough, I had an appointment with my kidney doctor. I called and changed the appointment to the next Thursday afternoon, neatly preserving my mornings. Sunday, my husband came home with an injured knee. A late night ER visit, a brace followed with instructions for an MRI and an orthopedic doctor visit followed.

Next morning my husband called to make an appointment for the MRI. That would have to be in the morning. Of course, the sooner the better and rightly so. We needed this taken care of as soon as possible so he could get back to work. No work, no paycheck. Simple.

I called and change the appointment I had for the repair of my compactor. The only time they could reschedule was...Tuesday morning. I've been trying to get the thing repaired for two months now. Tuesday morning, it is.

My husband called to make the appointment with the orthopedic doctor. The soonest appointment he had was Thursday afternoon, same time as my dentist appointment.

I call to cancel the dentist again and made an appointment for the next Tuesday. Thank goodness, they actually had an afternoon appointment.

Later that day my kidney doctor called: The doctor would be out of town. Could he change the appointment to Thursday afternoon? I said no, I have an appointment. The only time they could see me that week…and they needed to see me that week because I already had my labs was...Friday morning.

I took these labs the Friday morning before because I had had to take my mother to her doctor Friday morning because they only do follow-ups appointments in the mornings now. I figured I'd lose one day and get everything done that day. Oh, the innocent. I made the Friday morning appointment.

As I was in the middle of editing a short story for a contest, I got a call from the orthopedic doctor: He was called out of town for Thursday. The earliest they could see my husband would be next Thrusday afternoon. A blessing, truly. But why do I feel as if I’ve just been run over by a thousand galloping mules.

We all hear it, in every writing article. Get your butt in the chair and write.

And the famous: If you have to take your kids, parents, animals to doctors or functions take your notebook with you and write. Answer me this. How do you write when your nervous ninety-year-old mother needs distractions or your kid ask you if you saw his goal? How can you write when your husband sits in a waiting room wondering how he's going to pay his bills and needs to talk about anything else? Maybe a better writer could and would.

I live. I breathe. I have a life. I write anyway.

Mistakes

If we had to say what writing is, we would have to define it essentially as an act of courage.
—Cynthia Ozick

I just read my last blog. Again. I’m somewhat baffled. I went over it many times correcting mistakes and still, today, I found a dozen more. I set about correcting them, but I can almost bet there are more. My mistakes drive me crazy, especially when I’ve tried so hard to catching them all.

I’ll forgive myself.

It makes me doubt I’m a ‘real’ writer. In a way…that would be to doubt I’m a real person because…I forgot to bring in the mail, or forgot toilet paper at the store or... If we live, we forget, make mistakes, do things wrong.

If we write, we forget periods, commas, spell words wrong. Actually, a writer does get to edit. How lucky that is. Haven’t you had days you wish you could just go back and edit the whole, for blue’s sakes, day?

Safety or the Sound of Wings

The snow is a mixed blessing, I suppose. I’m tired of winter. I long for daffodils, pansies, and dirt. For rain, rather than snow. Still, it puts a damper on my ninety-three-year-old mother ‘getting out and cleaning up the yard.’ And it’s wet, not likely to stick around.

Courage is the price that Life exacts for granting peace,
The soul that knows it not, knows no release from little things;
Knows not the livid loneliness of fear, nor mountain heights where bitter joy can hear
The sounds of wings. —Amelia Earhart

I found this poem years ago and read it often. When I do, I hear the hush of wind daring her to fly. We hear it, us writers, too, at that moment when we face the computer screen or blank page at the beginning of a new project. We hear it when we send our manuscript out to publishers. There’s that catch of breath, that little prayer that this time, maybe, I’ll sell.

Pictures of Amelia Earhart reveal courage in her smile. Her head is held high. A bold spark in her eyes as she faces the crowd. She risks it all. Sometimes, I see her in my mind in that final moment; knowing she failed, knowing she didn’t regret the trying.

She could have stayed home…safe. She choose not to.

I admire that look-it-in-the-eye, face-it-squarely attitude, that determination and courage. I don’t have it, always. I’m insecure, unsure. More often than not, I don’t know if I’m even on the right track or any good.

At those times, I try to think of Earhart. How many skeptics had she faced? How many doubts?

Does writing take courage? Oh, yes. Nothing is quite as daunting as that blinking cursor nagging you to begin, to find some new truth inside yourself that will give your words meaning and value. Nothing is quite as painfully hopeful as sending out your manuscript yet again, but anything worth something, takes courage.

I keep Earhart’s poem in a small notebook at my desk, along with a picture of her waving from her plane that last time, excitement barely contained in her eyes.

Was there fear, too? I think so. You can’t step off into the unknown without it. But, was there regret? I would say, never. Not even that final moment when the hush engulfed her.

March Godsends:

• Cadbury eggs
• Corned beef and cabbage
• Bare lawns, after all these months
• March wind playing wind chimes
• Thriving houseplants
• Finished homemade baby gifts
• Chickadees, house finch and robins checking out nesting place
• Easter baskets lining store shelves
• A Sunday drive
• Family

One extra: The first pansy of spring