This Writer May Not

The truth is…I may not make it. I may never get my novels or poems published—likelihood is I won’t.

Do I give up now? Make my life a whole lot easier, less complicated. Enjoyable, even. That question dogs me every day. And it dogs me because I still forget what’s important.

Years ago, when I was going through a tough time, a friend told me, “When you’re going through tough times what’s important has a way of becoming crystal clear. Pay attention.”

Coming from someone else, I might not have paid attention, but this friend had the most heartbreaking thing happen to her: his babysitter shook her son. I paid attention and promised myself I would never forget what was truly important to me.

Yes, her words stuck and ten years later, as I laid on my couch, doing every last little thing the doctor told me to do in an effort to get better, her words came back to me.

Crystal clear, all right. No doubts whatsoever, as to what was important to me.

Publishing my work wasn’t even close to the top. But writing? It was and what’s more, it hurt not to do it. Actually hurt, physically. Hurt more than doing it, which is sometimes painful. And I realized it wasn’t just what I do, it is what and who I am. That doesn’t depend on whether anyone else thinks I’m a writer or not. It is how I see myself and have always seen myself. In words. No…, in written words. When, I couldn’t get the words down, it wasn’t the writing that atrophied, it was me.

Still, sometimes, I forget. I let the need to prove myself (you know, to all those doubters who asked you what on earth you do all that time you’re locked away writing and where is the product you’ve been working on so long, anyway? Are you sure, you’re not napping in there? Or, my favorite…I know you’re writing, but it’s not as if you have a real job like I do… and I really need you to …) get the best of me.

Interruptions are the most frustrating…the phone calls; the 'I just need to talk to you for a minute', etc. But then, I realized my anger was making the interruption actually take me away longer. Often, I was as much angry with myself because I had wasted some uninterrupted time on non-productive stuff like…computer solitaire, e-mails, IMs. So, the deal I made with myself about interruptions is; I don’t get to rage unless I’ve put every minute of uninterrupted time I have into actually writing. And raging can be so self-gratifying, can't it?

Truth is, to write I have done as every other write has had to do. I have given up huge parts of my life in order to write and still care for my elderly mother, husband, kids, pets and life, I have created added stress and a sort of chaos in my life, that maybe, I shouldn’t have. I might not have, had I known another way to live. But, I just can’t do it. I just can’t give up. Well, at least I can’t give up the writing.

I wonder and worry if I’ve done a great disservice to my loved ones and myself, but I have to hope that if I didn’t write, it would be worse. And I hope that they try to understand as best they can.

I find it sad that is there is really no way for anyone, except another writer, to understand that need. Not to say they don’t try, but truthfully, and I hope I’m not doing the, oh, I’m so different; I’m so special kind of thinking here.

I like to think there are all kinds of passions that are similar: acting, singing, golf, (hey, I don’t even pretend to understand that. If the goal is to get the lowest score, why start?) Hopefully, all dreams are similar, but I don’t know. I only know my dream.

Life can make it hard to hold on to dreams. The longer I live, the farther away my dreams seem, the more important I think holding on to them is. They keep fading a bit, seeming more and more impossible and farther away. Truthfully, while we were waiting for a diagnosis and I was unable to do much more than lay on the couch, all I really wanted to do was to write. I didn’t give one damn if I ever published. I just wanted to put pen to paper and pour out my heart and the fact that I couldn’t even string two words together in my head, frankly, scared me.

So, when I’m done raging at the interruption, the latest emergency or need that derails my writing, I put in the time, pour out my heart some more and bless every lucky star in the sky I’m writing.

Just maybe, that’s the success.

Perfect: Open Country

One of the best parts about vacationing is the opportunity to read. somewhat, uninterrupted. Some books, I don’t care, or I, even, end up hoping for interruption. Not that the book isn’t good, just sometimes, I need or want to break away. Rarely, at least for a good long while, have I found a book that’s made me want to sit up all night reading.

I use to, though. When my boys were small, sometimes, in that vast wilderness of motherhood, I remember a few books, I stayed up all night reading and it was worth it in the morning. I was a railroad widow, so I was often alone for days or a week at a time. Raising boys alone.

I was lucky, as I told my boys, “I was once a little boy, too, so I know what you’re thinking.” (My middle son says this comment probably did irreparable damage to their delicate psyche.) I was a tomboy and my best friend was a boy who could think up the wildest ideas for fun. Truth is, I thought up my share, too.

We set out one summer to dig to China. Even his father helped. We didn’t make it, but by the end of summer, we had quite a hole and our mother’s were tired of vacuuming up the ton of sand we tracked into the house in hair and shoes. I don’t remember one time being bored that summer. We had to take our lunches down in the hole with us. Les’ father made us keep it wide for safety sake. Still, what an adventure.

We caught grasshoppers and cooked them in toy iron skillets to see what they tasted like, climbed trees and played Tarzan, made a giant Monopoly™ game throughout the neighborhood and charged our friends to play. We were trying to earn money to buy some pet turtles. We played cars and made roads mapping grass and sand. Played cowboys and Indians with plastic toys that I proceeded to chew all the tails and hoofs off of.

Perfect experiences to raise a family of boys, I think. Still, often, I found myself out of my element and longing for…just one touch of lace or pink. I was lucky, though. I read.

And romance novels were just beginning to go strong. Every once in a while, I’d find one book that kept me reading past midnight, past dawn. LaVyrle Spencer was my favorite writer. The writer whose book I knew would keep me up through the night. The story, the writing, the tiny details, the use of words. When she released a new book, I savored it, holding it back as reward.

Well, I have finally found a writer who can stand right next to Spencer. Proudly. And better yet, the books are Western Historical. My very first love.

I was raised on John Wayne and Clint Eastwood s*#t-kickers. That’s what you went to the movies to see, in my day. Good old westerns where right was right and a man took a problem into his own hands. And better yet, there were horses.

I love horses. When I was little, I was a horse, too. I thought I was anyway. Wished I was, but that’s another story.

I started and finished Open Country by Kari Warner, the second in Warner’s Blood Rose Trilogy on vacation. And…I loved it.

Hank’s story is perfect and Molly is perfect for him. I wondered as I read Pieces of Sky who the woman would be who would win this man’s walled off heart. She’d have to be special and Molly is. And all the things I love about reading are there, too. Great writing, searing detail, western setting, a story that is just like every man or woman’s conflict and problems. I love stories like that…like just what happens next door or in your own life. And to write like that, you have to understand the human emotions and feelings.

Warner does (and she’s a really nice lady, too). And Warner’s books remind us of those old westerns in the best way, with strong characters, rugged men and setting. I highly recommend this second in the series and I wait impatiently for Jack’s story in Chasing the Sun.

And I have another great book to recommend. Haven’t I been blessing in that department lately? My only wish is that I hadn’t bought it for my Kindle because the one drawback with the Kindle, as I’ve said before, is I can’t share my reading finds. I usually decide as I buy the book whether I’ll want to past it on or not. That determines in what format I buy it. With The Mountain Between Us by Charles Martin I chose wrong. I want to share.

I want to share with my boys and my mother, especially. The story felt so personal and close to me and there were life lessons, too.

I saw the ad for The Mountain Between Us in my Literary Guild flyer and because it was a survivor story, I was immediately interested, then I found out the setting. The Ashley National Forest. That’s where we spend a lot of our vacations. I know the place well, love it, fear it and respect it. The story was great, the details spot on. Martin described the setting to perfection. And the setting served as a character in the story. But it was the love in the story that pulled me in. It was a hard book to put down.

Setting Again:

I’m just back from a much-needed vacation, doing nothing much more than eating, napping, reading, shooting (yep, shooting) and enjoying nature. As I’ve been in the frame of mind of setting, here I was in a setting that…forms a great deal of warp and weave to the tapestry of my life. Our family has been vacationing to the Uintah Mountains since before it was a family. This place is part of my husband’s family history. Not so much mine, but I was introduced with complete awareness to the importance of that, (Maybe, not complete) and, after some difficulty (on my part mostly) I have come to love the area.

(This is Smitty's Basin where an old sawmill use to be.)

It didn’t come over night, though. That love. First, I am a secret obsessive compulsive. Secret because I try to hide and fight the worst of it. Second, after the first two introductions: I got carsick driving over the seventeen-mile dirt road. (At that time, most likely more than seventeen… I never got carsick except when my father drove), I fell off my horse when it jumped an unexpected ravine ( yes, I got back on. I had to. The poor horse looked embarrassed for me), I didn’t go back until I brought with me, my first and second born. Now, being obsessive compulsive and an overprotective mom to boot, the place felt like the farthest wilderness. What the hell was I doing there?

Rough terrain, dark forests, a night sky so deep with stars so bright, elk, deer, bear and…WOODTICKS. The Amazon. Foreign, frightening. I was way out of my comfort zone. I was an alien in a strange world. I wanted nothing more than to go home. I was Dorothy and there was no fake wizard, no balloon.

And… I had history with WOODTICKS.

Setting, the way character reacts to setting and emotion.

My shooting started out as research. As a writer of western historical, I wanted to learn a little about shooting a pistol. I had passed a NRA class many years before. I knew how to shoot a rifle, could look up what I needed as far as parts of a revolver, the mechanics and such, but I wanted to know how hard it was to be accurate, what it felt like to hold the pistol in an outstretched arm and sight down the shorter barrel.

I love to shoot as long as it’s a paper target or soda can. I love the smell of gunpowder, the smoke rising from the barrel, the ricocheting sound off canyon walls, the kick of a gun.

I love fishing. I’m just not all that fond of catching. But I had three boys and learned to help them take fish off the hook, fill a bobber with water from the lake, catch and release, restring a fishing pole, untangle a line, retie on a proper fly. Yes, sometime, in some story I write I will use every bit of it.

Aren’t we lucky, us writers? No better way to stay curious and young.

(The big fish is mine.)

Setting

Every writer knows how important setting is to a story, poem, novel, even essay. Setting is where the story is. I’ve been thinking a lot about setting the last few days. Not just about what setting is to a story, but what it means to a character.

Setting can be described in detail, but until it is seen from a character’s eyes, it doesn’t seem real. Until it is felt through the characters emotions, it doesn’t touch the reader. And the truth of that or, the reality of that came home to me this last week.

I can’t say the week has been very productive. Last Wednesday I got a new computer tower. I’ve been struggling with a difficult computer for years. One thing and another going wrong, but me determined to make the dang thing last. I’m what you would call a kept writer. My husband supports my writing financially and emotionally with very little financial help from said writing. I’ll never be able to repay the expenses I’ve incurred: computers (7, at last count), how-to books, subscriptions, software, post-it notes, pens (an obsession, I’ll admit), office space. Finally, my husband and I decided there was nothing to do but to throw in the towel and buy the new computer.

I spent last Thursday and Friday installing programs, Monday and Tuesday getting the whole thing organized the way I like it and Wednesday and yesterday getting comfortable with the new stuff and getting all the settings in Word the way I want them.

I can’t tell you how unsettled I felt until everything was working like I was use to. I felt so lost and that got me thinking about setting again.

Setting, a character’s setting, defines them. Each little piece of that character’s setting gives a hint about that person. There is emotion involved with the setting in which a character finds themselves, always. Setting brings comfort, calm or unease. We feel it. Our characters must, too.
How do you feel when things aren’t where you left them? What’s the first emotion you feel when you come home from a long vacation? How did you feel when your home (or trailer) was robbed and trashed (I know. Do you? That one good thing that can come out of a bad situation. You know. A writer can always take a bad situation; remember and write about it.) What do you feel when you look at that Buddha statue your father gave your mother that you keep on a bookshelf? What does your mother’s tablecloth, the one with the big red roses all over it, mean to you when you pull it out of the drawer?

You must ask all those questions for sound, sight, smell, touch, and emotions. You must ask why and how, too.

The best way I’ve found to include all this in my stories is to look what setting does for me. How do I feel about a place? Why? What makes me happy, uncomfortable, reminds me of something? What are my memories? Are they good or bad?

When you begin making notes for settings, think beyond what setting looks like. Look at what it means to the characters; look at the emotions your setting will foster. Ask questions and never stop asking them.

Words

Doesn't she look as if the world has awed her? I actually remember that feeling.








I’ve been told I started talking very young. My sister says I never shut up either. I know that must be true because some of my earliest memories involve words and the pictures they evoked. I remember playing with words.

Some words were just the best things rolling over my tongue. Words like: purple, trustful, silk, aluminum, ambulance, butterfly (can’t you see it), munch, cushion, chocolate (Well, that is delicious rolling over your tongue)…ah, delicious, scrumptious, swallow (a thing and an action), cheese (another yum). See what I mean?



I think I mentioned in this blog before that at about four or five I asked the neighbor as he was digging in his yard what his name was.


“Dug,” he answered.

I remember laughing and saying, “Your name is Dug and you’re digging?” I thought that was so funny (Hey, I didn’t say I had an early sophisticated sense of humor). Though I wasn’t in school yet, I already associated the word dug with action, not with a name. And in my mind his name was spelled, Dug. It was when I started school that year and met another student with the name, Doug, that I understood two words could sound the same and that words were more. Things, actions, emotions, people.

I was lucky, I had parents who read to me, and once I began reading on my own, learning more and more about words, nothing held me back.



Unfortunately for my sister (she says she couldn’t get a word in edgewise), I didn’t stop talking, but as I matured I put my words to paper. Volumes and volumes of paper: notes and letters to friends, Slam books, teen angst poetry and stories, essays, journals (Dumb me; I burned these after a bad break-up. Oh, the drama), lists (I have lists for my lists), any excuse, I wrote.

So Today, just for fun: a challenge. Play with your words. Think about them differently. Turn verbs into nouns. Nouns into verbs. Make poetry. Rhyme, counter-rhyme.

1st Pictures Worth a Million Words

The lilacs...over mostly, but while here I had their delicious scent. Lilacs are forever linked with my mother and the beginnings of summer. I wanted them in my blog a month ago, but the SD card reader on my computer broke.

My tree peony. The petals are like sweet satin, but when I tried to bring a broken branch inside so I could enjoy the blossom instead of just throwing it away I couldn't stand the strange musky water scent. How can anything this pretty smell like that, but then, I guess we've all met some of those type.

The Japanese Maple at the corner of my house just keeps making me smile. It reminds me of a little bird sheltering her chicks, the way it huddles over the Veronica and rock cress.

And finally, my snowball bush. It's growing into it's own. For years we had to stake it up as the blossoms would get too heavy for the trunk or branches. Now, it makes a lovely white umbrella to walk under as you pass through my back gate. I love the blossoms snowing down on my head and the shade it provides for my glider.

Beautiful Day

Beautiful day, yesterday. Warm night. Dress, put on shoes, grab jacket, cell phone, I-pod and head out for my morning walk. Clouds to the northwest look ominous, dark and slung low, but it’s still warm. I can smell rain, but I have time. The breeze is moist, but I have time.

The rain hit at the top of the hill as I touched the chain-link fence that surrounds the Air-force base. I’m sans umbrella, but the rain starts slow and smells clean. As I pass a patch of fresh mowed weeds the smell reminds me of the inside of a barn, all yeasty oat and straw, with manure and horse thrown in. I love that smell. It takes me back to the horse-crazy days of a younger me.

Still, every year I haunt the local county fair and the stables awash in that smell. Nothing better than to be able to stroke between the long ears of a mule, the velvet of a Tennessee Walker or the tall shoulders of a Clydesdale. That way the scent lingers on me for hours, which cause me to smile even as we leave the grounds.

Back in the early days of the seventies and another recession we gave up our horses. There was a baby on the way. But that smell takes me back, always, as now. I quicken my pace, hoping to get back home before I’m complete drenched.

The birds don’t care much about the rain. I hear quail in the brush and Mourning Doves taking off for the treetops. Somewhere, a peacock asks for help and the crackle of a pheasant floats up from the wooded grove below. I could curse the rain and how wet I’m getting but I don’t. I thank the memories that simple, earthy scent gives me.

Could just one paragraph of my writing do the same for someone? Could a smell, a sight, a memory turn into the best writing I do for the week? Make it so.