The End of End Pieces

I’ve been going through my files, scanning tear pages into the computer. My file cabinets are stuffed. I have to make room. I keep articles from magazines and newspaper that spark something in me or in my memory, give me ideas, help my writing, gives me another take on a subject I’m interested in. And, of course, I save research material.

A wealth of information passes through my fingers, if I pay attention. I’m sure that’s true for anyone, but a writer never knows when that one tiny insignificant bit of information is just the thing for a scene in a novel, a line in a poem, a whole essay idea.

It amazes me the piles of tear outs I’ve kept from magazines and newspapers over the years. As I’ve been going through these I’ve noticed most of the tear pages have come from magazine end pieces. Every magazine had one, that last page essay. And I loved them. As I’ve been going through these files I’ve been amazed at the writing. Those end pieces are the best writing, I think. Emotional, witty, thoughtful, over the back fence conversations, that we get now only through blogs and internet noise.

It made me just a little sad. I know there is so much more access now, more opinions heard, too. Probably a good thing, that. Yes, the dialogue is bigger, more diverse and we most likely do a lot more thinking about someone else’s opinion, whether we agree or not.

Still, is it wrong of me? Does it reveal my age when I say how much I miss those end pieces in magazine? When I could read them over my toast and honey at breakfast, where the speed of the rebuttal didn’t exist and any answer to the essay took thought, editing and careful wording.
These archived essays were a strange illustration of my tastes, my views, disagreements with views and my life as a stay-at-home mom during a time not so different from now. It is a history, my history.

End pieces from Byline (how I miss that writer’s magazine), Garden Shed, Writer’s Digest, Woman’s Day, Family Circle, Good Housekeeping. My life in end pieces.

The pile reminds me of a box my brother-in-law gave me from his Aunt Doris. He said I was the only one he could think would appreciate the contents of that boot box. The contents must have meant a great deal to Aunt Dernice, she kept it through every move she made, including the last. Inside the old boot box was a pile of papers with quotes. Luncheon napkins with quotes on the back, church programs, tear outs from the newspaper (1945-1956.) Of course I wanted it.

I collect every great quote I run into, too. What a treasure and a little bread crumb trail of Dernice’s life.

It’s kind of sad that there won’t be a lot of breadcrumbs left behind anymore.

Platform

Writers are supposed to have a platform. Publishers are reluctant to take on writers without one.

The only platform I have is, I write. I want to write. I love it. I struggle with and for it. That passion is what has pulled me through illness, heartache, rejection, worry, happiness.

That is the only ‘plateform’ I can think applies to me. Blogs and social networking is necessary, but you need a platform for it to do its good. I can’t give advice on my blog or hints that I don’t think I qualify as knowing. I can’t go about giving advice to anyone unless I’m certain. I mean, I even second-guess me.

My policy as a mother, daughter, sister, friend and writer is to only give advice about the things I am certain of. Oh, I’ll give opinions, all right. I’m full of opinion, but I try to remember to preface anything like that with a reminder that it is only my opinion and I could be wrong. Because I am, often.

As to writing, any discussion is going to be a short one, because I’m just not certain of much when it comes to writing. Oh, I’ve been writing since the first grade, but do I qualify to give our advice? Besides, I’ve pretty much come to the conclusion that, honestly, anything could work or nothing. In my opinion, of course.

But…one thing I know a whole lot about is struggling, floundering, and just doing the best I can as a writer. I know striving, grasping for positive reinforcement, studying, learning, failing, failing again, failing better, wrestling doubts, fighting the let down of rejection and pumping up my own confidence. I know about not wishing, but working, writing the best I can, even if it’s not ‘good enough.’

Now, if that’s ‘platform,’ I have one.

Godsends and Thanksgiving

I feel as if I’ve been so busy, this whole year. Being busy is a double-edged sword. I like busy, especially if it’s because I have tons of ideas and projects in my writing—poetry, novels, my blog, several pressing goals or deadlines. The more I write, the more I write.

Besides, it keeps me involved. It ups my production, too, which is great. After my recovery, when I missed writing so much, there is such a joy, just to write.

I want to write even more. I forget there is this other life that calls me, needs me, is my heart. This other life I love, that I’m so lucky I have. My civilian life, so to speak.

Still I find being too busy is much preferred to boredom or illness.

I am never bored, but I certainly do forget things…like my Godsends. I only just realized it’s been months and so many Godsends, since I blogged about them. October’s colorful leaf display, Halloween, spook alleys.

Well, November won’t go by without me mention some:

• Scattered brittle leaves in copper, old gold and bronze
• Wood smoke curling welcome around my shoulders
• Stormy scarlet sunrises and sunsets (check out this one http://http://ourstorydaybyday.blogspot.com/)
• The first spit of snow
• Magpies kibitzing about the free walnuts I donate to them
• Poetry workshops stretching my poetic muscles
• Homemade lavender soap
• The extra hour sleep
• Flannel sheets
• Thanksgiving—in the heart, for the tradition, the dinner and oh, yes, for the writing.

Progress and Challenges

Every Monday, early, I take care of my houseplants. While the computer boots up, I trim out dead leaves, look for bugs, insert the water meter and water the Boston ferns, the ZZ plants, the tri-color pothos, rubber plants, lipstick plant, philodendrons and violets.

There was a time when these plants became one of my tricks of salvation from the winter blues. Now, I simply love something green surrounding me. I’ve accumulated them slowly. They brighten my rooms and mood.

I had to learn to love the winter. November, my birth month, always seemed so gray and grim. Nothing to really recommend it. It has taken years for me to realize that isn’t true. The sun still has warmth in it as it streams through the windows and autumn color, though muted, still splashes old gold, here and there, through the silvered trees. As Dickens said, “each season has a beauty all its own.”

There was always my birthday and Thanksgiving school break going for it. Later, I was often buried beneath the preparations of the big feast. The turkey, potatoes, stuffing and pies. I took over the preparations of Thanksgiving the year after my father died.

He was in charge of getting the turkey ready to roast and carving the bird. Such simple tasks became huge holes. I was always a curious child, asking too many questions, why, where, when, how, what, can I help. I’m so glad of that now. I use to watch my father clean and truss the turkey, so there was no question that I take over and help my mother with the meal.

I kept at that until it became too much to drag my growing family to my mom’s house each holiday, so I began my own traditions, always including my mom. As my family grew and got married, knowing I had to share my married children, holidays became an every other year tradition.

This year it will be just my husband and I. I’m looking forward to the smaller, quieter meal. The time to read the fat sales ads, taking a nap with the smell of the turkey, and the fireplace to keep me company. No pressure. I might even get to read a book, or do some writing.

I’ve learned through the on and off years, a loveliness to November and the rest of the winter months. Even a gratitude for time spent closer to home and warmth.

Writing is a bit easier without the garden calling to me, whispering of neglect. The office like an isolated turret as snow falls and the fireplace blazes.

I’m at the end of a five-week poetry workshop. As I’ve been so determined to get the edits done on Ellie and the Tie-down Man, I planned to work on both. My time has been very compressed as I still have my day job: primary-care giver, chief cook and bottle washer, railroad widow around here.

The experience turned into quite a challenge in more ways than one. Is it the cosmos, chaos or me? It seems when I am most pressured for time that is just when the most, time-consuming, unable to be ignored interruptions take place. Still, I stuck with it. I pressed on.

It paid off. It really did. I don’t know if the poetry I wrote was the best, but I do know I stretched myself. I tried things I wasn’t sure I wanted to try and emotions I wasn’t sure I wanted to feel. There are five poems that need editing, but still, there are five poems.

Ellie and the Tie-down Man is on track. I’m on the downhill of that. Though once I got past the spot where I had to stop when I got sick, it’s been tougher going as that hadn’t been touched before.

Progress is sweet. Challenges make it even sweeter.

Thank Yous

In the September issue of Writer’s Digest, Sherman Alexie suggests we thank an author when we read a piece of theirs that we love. In the Nov./Dec. issue, M. Claudette Sandecki mentions this, too and says she thinks of it as ‘insurance' that more of similar work from the author will make its way to her.

It’s a great idea. A writer’s life is isolating. All of us wonder, sometimes if we connect with our readers. A simple note, offered to the writer telling them what we enjoyed.

I think it can go deeper than that. Everyone likes to know they’re doing a good job. It gives a lift to the trudge of everyday and helps maintain the work. I’d do it to a great waiter, a thoughtful hairdresser. (And throw in a tip.) It’s a way to connect to the writer, expecting nothing but wanting only to show appreciation for the enjoyment I got.

It’s such a simple thing to do with e-mail, Twitter, and Facebook, so available.

Give a writer a gift this holiday.

Risks

At one time, I had a relative tell me I needed to take more risks. It’s true I am a careful person. I wear my seatbelt, wash my hands constantly, use hand sanitizer, drive the speed limit, wash all the surfaces in my house with Clorox wipes, at least once a week, look both ways when I cross the street, wear the brightest clothes in my closet on my walk in which I, also, carry a can of mace. I lock my doors, I have virus protection, insurance. I don’t fly, speak in public, hang-glide, jump out of perfectly good planes, ‘cause you’re not going to get me in it anyway. I don’t gamble, get on ladders, mix chemicals, do wiring. (If you knew me, you would not want me to.)

Actually, I’m an obsessive-compulsive coward (This all made more so with the MPGN, ensuing prednisone treatment compromising my natural immunity, the flu scare of last year with the difficulty in getting the shots and the newfound vulnerability I now feel, in spades.) and I’m okay with that. Really, I am. But don’t tell me I don’t take risks. I risk every day. I risk my heart, my confidence, and who I am. I do sorties into hostile territories, every single day. I know, from the get-go, I’m going to be under fire, likely shot down, wounded and…and every once in a while…saved. Don’t tell me I need to take more risks. I write. I risk everything. Does that sound dramatic? It is, I suppose, but other writer’s know exactly what I’m talking about.

Writers hear it, it’s the common vernacular: Open a vein, sweat blood, tie your butt to the chair. Sounds a bit violent, doesn’t it? Non-writers wonder why the hell we do it. Every writer I know wonders, too, on those bad days, but the writers that stick with it know, without any doubt or reservation, it is worth it.

It is worth it!

Halloween Rainbow

Ten Things That Keep Me Writing

• I stay in my office. I do the work. Fight the distractions, even if it feels like that’s all I’ve done that day. Even if it feels like I only got two words written, I don’t leave until my time’s up, then I start again tomorrow.


• I let a lot of things go. I’ll never have everything done so I’ll have time to write, so I write first, then tackle the stuff.


• I realize, I don’t need workshops as much as I need to just write.


• I decide. I’m in charge of my time. I’m the one who decides what distractions and interruptions I allow to get through.


• I know the odds are against me, so I enjoy the process, but…BUT…I know that with persistence the odds tip in my favor.


• I never go anywhere without pen and paper. There’s no telling where I might find my next great idea or detail or gem word. I keep myself open and I’m always ready to capture the treasure the universe sends my way.


• I try to ignore the bad news about publishing and be happy I’m doing what I love to do. I get as much joy as I can accomplishing what I set out to do.


• I allow myself a half hour funk for rejection. Tell myself it wasn’t my turn and try again.


• I take time for myself and my well-being. I exercise, eat right 80 % of the time, unplug, have fun, do something just for me.