Attitude is Everything

I need to improve my attitude. I can’t just do my work, or as I say, “Don’t wish for it, work for it,” or just “believe in the unbelievable, believe in yourself.” I need more attitude than that. Here’s my list:

·       Don’t wait. Do it now. Write down that idea. Edit that poem that is almost ready to submit. Plan now. Buy that needed, used up supply now (so you don’t put off printing, sending, post-it noting, whatever)

·       Control your doubts, control actions. Think big as long as you’re thinking

·       Find, refind, build, love the passion you always had for writing. Remember that passion and why. It’s still there. It’s what matters most. It’s what helps you overcome doubts, difficulties and brain drought.

·       Know that the one constant is change. Especially now. Especially in publishing. Stay open to change. Remind yourself about all the writers you’ve heard of that were published without going the traditional route.

·       Learn from every rejection, setback, interruption, writer’s block. Ask how you can avoid the problem next time? Remember rejection is an opportunity to do it again, edit, change, improve.

·       Be more grateful with the opportunities you have. Give yourself credit for your successes. Remind yourself the odds of you getting published in this or that. Whenever you do get published, know it was stiff competition.

·       Listen to your gut. Listen to your heart. Hope you don’t have indigestion or heartburn

·       Remember, this is your life—your writing life. Take a hold and do it your way. Don’t change what you’re writing with every whim or subject that has caught on. Be and write who you are. You will never go wrong being and writing yourself because no one else can do it the way you can.

·       You’re shy—painfully shy. Acknowledge that and try to at least leave a good impression but, again, be yourself.

·       Never stop learning. Improve your writing in any way you have the opportunity, even if it is a small improvement. Never, ever think you know it all.

Providence

Just back from our annual vacation to the Uintah mountains in Northeastern Utah. Beautiful country. Country very dear to my husband. I have learned to love it. Learned because, at first, I was so out of my element, what I knew, my comfort zone. Now, it refreshes me.

For my husband, it’s all about the fishing. For me, it is the scenery, the quiet, the research. It is an old land, the aspen trees marked with dates and history and old gold mines and ghost tales and folk lore. A writer’s treasure, really, but it took me a long time to see it that way and take advantage.

On evening, a storm began behind us as we sat on the shore and fished. Thunder began as just rumblings, but soon into much more. When the lightning got too close I ran for the truck. Everything is more up at that altitude and lightning stands the hair up on my neck, no matter how far away.

Squalls moved through the canyon every night. We had rainbows two nights and skies that grabbed my heart. So much snow still clings to the mountain they look ghostly as the sun disappears for the day.

I spent one raining evening stealing words from the hand-outs they passed out in the campground. I love stealing words, finding words. I run a list of words that catch my eye and then write poetry or descriptions using them. It makes for a good way to stretch writing muscle.

A page is a page and nothing is ever wasted. Old writing can be revisited, old and new pieces mooshed together. I love doing that and I think, sometimes, it is providence.

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.

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.

Looking

So, I’m a bit OCD. Some would say very. Which means I spent the better part of Wednesday and Thursday looking for the kidnapped piece of black clay. Needless to say, I didn’t find it, but…while searching for it, I did find 20 toy mice, 2 pens, 1 highlighter, too many dust bunnies and my poem tracks.

That’s how it happens. I work the idea, do research, find words I want to use, do a lot of pondering. What am I trying to say? What brought this idea to me? Why? What are the emotions the idea taps? Then, out of the blue, while doing something completely unrelated, I find the tracks of my poem. This usually comes down to one word. One word changes everything. And the poem is born-rough, unfinished, sloppy even, but it’s all there.

I work with L.E by my side and Maddie Rose wondering about my desk looking for: black clay shards, no doubt. Still, I can’t get mad at her. I’m much the same as I search for poems from my memories, thoughts and experiences. I never know what will rise and become going that poem that haunts me.

I tell myself the piece of clay is gone for good. I tell myself it’s OK, but it haunts me still. I have a Christmas Eve breakfast to attend, along with a little job Santa asked me to do and gifts to deliver. I sally forth, trying to ignore that little nag, for the poem is whispering too, as I attend my civilian life and I can only manage one other life. That’s what it feels like sometimes, with my writing. As if, I am living two lives.

Just Start

“I don’t even know where to begin.” My son told my husband at the beginning of the remodel of his business.

“Just start,” was my husband’s advice. “Then, go from there.”

I’ve learned some of my best writing lessons from my husband. He’s not particularly literary, not into books too much, hasn’t really a clue what I do in my office every morning other than the finished product. Yet, he has given me my best principles for writing.

• When you don’t know where to begin, just start. That is the solution. From any kind of start, you can write that poem, story or novel. One word can do it. From that insignificant beginning everything can flow.

The next principle I learned as my husband and I began our own remodel twenty-three years ago. It was a huge undertaking—an addition to our modest one-level tract house. As we were about to get the financing my mother asked my husband how he was going to accomplish such a big project on his own.

His answer: “I’m going to do one thing, worry about that step and then go on to the next.” It always reminds me of a comment by Charles Emerson Winchester III from the old M.A.S.H. series when he first came to the unit. I paraphrase: “I do one thing at a time. I do it well and then, I move on.”

Second principle:

• When you begin a project that seems overwhelming, do one thing, worry about one thing at a time. Only then, move on.

That’s the way I write: I begin and then, I continue, one-step at a time. And you know what? That’s how everyone gets the work done, no matter what else they tell you.

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.

Settings

How a character reacts to or feels about setting adds to a story, movie, or novel, creates emotion, connection and depth. Setting can become a whole poem. Think about Gone with the Wind and you think about Tara, how Scarlet felt about it, what it meant, how it shaped her life. Think about Witness and how place was as much a character as Rachael, her son, Samuel or John Book.

Setting-where you are born, grow up or what you are introduced to in your life shapes you. You love or hate a place or learn to. Place sets a tone. It seeps into every aspect of a person’s life. Dictates speech, tastes, attitudes and actions. Think about your own life and how where you have lived has made you who you are, who you become. This is what you need to do with every character in your writing.

It’s more than getting the details right. It’s having as much firsthand knowledge as possible. It’s seeing a place as your character sees it. It’s standing in the rain and seeing how the corner store looks, misty and sad. Knowing the roof leaks in the northwest corner by the magazines. Knowing how irritated your character will be because that northwest corner is where she likes to hang out to read People magazine. It’s knowing the last gas pump to the north at Common Sense is always out of order and damn the inconvenience.

So, whether I’m writing a poem, a novel or a story I research setting. If I’m lucky enough to visit the place, I take notes and pictures. I try to get a feel for the place, close my eyes and listen to the sounds of everyday life. I try to imagine how my character feels about this place; figure out his/her emotions. This is nothing new. You’ve heard this before from writers teaching how to do setting.

It works, too. I go a step farther and do a character sketch of the place. That helps. I list words that fit the scenery. I watch people and imagine my character interacting with them.
We’ve been vacationing as a family in the Uintahs for twenty years, my husband, much longer. He knows the roads and terrain well, but still there are places he hasn’t seen. In the summer, while we were stuck inside because of rain, I studied the map to get names of mountains, etc., for a poem I was working on.

There was a small lake my husband hadn’t been to. Heart Lake. Wonderful, intriguing name, isn’t it? As it rained most of the vacation, we were never able to take the ride to see it. We took the opportunity between rainstorms, this fall. The road to Heart Lake was rough, the scenery shattering. Another lake on the way-Yellow Lake.

Tiny lakes, scenery that fed my soul. We didn’t get all the way to Heart Lake because of the road and storm threatening. Still, I wrote tons of notes, took pictures, spent some time pulling in the feel of the area. Will I ever use it? I’m certain, there is a poem coming. And I can see using the scenery for one of my western historicals.

More importantly, I see that something of that place, that setting has stamped me, changed me. Made me something more than what I was. That is what setting does.

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 research on that aspect, at least nothing I read or heard. I think I sensed or felt it mostly because of my own complete failure to stick with piano 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, listened to music, taught himself how to play the guitar and reminisced about the quartet he sang in when he was young. And my mother played piano—beautifully. I didn’t know this until I was about ten, when my father brought home a piano.

I don’t know that the piano was bought strictly for my mother. I really don’t think so because money was tight and usually if a lot of money was spent on something it was for us kids. I think the decision was as much for my brother as my mother. He wanted to be in his high school elite choir and that meant try-outs. It was the first time I realized my mother had talents beyond the home and my little world. I knew she was the best cook, sewed wonderful clothes for me and my sister, knitted 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 wonderful, magical talent. (Imagine how I felt when I learned she could type and do shorthand with the best, too.)

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. Her hands pranced over the keys and 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.

In 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), speaks of 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’s worth it. The work is rewarding and fun, when you stop fighting it. But more than that, I was teaching myself that lesson, too. I had things I would have much rather done than take them to lessons or nag them to practice, but nothing more important.

And through them, 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.

Lessons

I’m learning so much from the poetry workshop I’m taking.(http://wow-womenonwriting.com/) Many of the lessons I know, but a refresher never hurts anyone, especially me—now. Many lessons are about detail and going deeper into my emotions. Some lessons are about discipline which I’ve always had in good supply (sometimes too much. I tend to lower my head and keep going when I should let it go) and how to not allow myself to be overwhelmed.

As most know who read Windfalls for Writers regularly, I’ve spent the last year and a half struggling to recover from MPGN, a rare kidney disease. It isn’t curable, but hopefully manageable. I would just as soon never feel like I did last year, so I take my health seriously. But I’ve also found how important my writing is to my health (mental health and happiness).

I think one of the lowest points last year was when I finally started feeling up to sitting at my desk and I couldn’t seem to put one word in front of the other on the page. Sometimes I would find myself face down on the desk, drool pooling under my cheek and the whole morning gone. I felt lost and I suppose I was. After all, what is a writer who can’t write?

A million terrific ideas traveled through my head. Couldn’t seem to catch a one on paper, but this blog isn’t about-oh, poor sick me. It’s about writing. And this blog is about lessons, particularly now.

Excitement in my writing has been growing for several months now and I’ve been working on a bunch of poetry. Poetry is the right vehicle for my writing right now. It makes me joyful.

And—my roots are in poetry as I’ve said before. Like a loyal, childhood friend, I’ve written poetry during the most emotional times of my life and abandoned it, too, for a while, but always I come back to it. Coming back seems right, right now, like coming home. I needed that comfort, but also I needed the stretching, the concentration.

For years I’d wanted to take some classes in poetry writing. I’m starting small and carefully because I’m not supposed to get overwhelmed. This workshop doesn’t get all the credit, but a lot. It’s given me a finish line, a goal. I push myself a bit more to do better because I have an instructor reading my efforts, giving me immediate, constructive comments.

So what I’m I learning? To write that first draft with wild abandon. Bungee-jump into the brine-don’t even hold your nose. Just jump right in. Then chop, cut, rewrite. Painful, but not as painful as not writing. There’s always another chance at making our work better.

I’ve learned to never take anything for granted and enjoy the things I love more. I’ve learned that writing isn’t everything. Many things are more important. Like family and friends and health. I don’t intend to forget that. But—writing is a part of me. So I’m learning how to prioritize.

Funny—in all that learning, in all the struggle to get better, to find my joy, to find what was important to me—never once did getting published come up. Imagine that.

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.

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?

PAD Done

The PAD Challenge is over, done, finished. I made it. I wrote a poem for each prompt. That was my goal. Just write and submit one poem, every day.

I’m not saying every poem was my best. I got stuck on several prompts; simple hated some of Brewer’s prompts. I had a few chaotic weekends that almost sidetracked me. Life often didn’t co-operate, but you know, I think that was part of the point or lesson to be learned. Mine, anyway.

A twist on my own motto: Save yourself. Write anyway, I guess. See, I had to write regardless. It didn’t matter that I didn’t like the prompt for Day 8 or really didn’t want to go there with Day 9’s prompt. I had to write a poem-condense the chosen subject, find a place to start, begin and do.

I treated the month long challenge as I do NaNoWriMo month. I wrote. I got that poem done. Not Shakespeare, but a poem I could at least bear to have online for anyone to see. And so it went day by day. Some days I was ashamed of my efforts, cringed to put my work online.

For one thing everyone else’s poems were so good. Funny thing though, mine weren’t so bad and the prompts I hated most usually produced the best results from me. So, though I sometimes hated the process, the difficulty, I loved the result.

National Poetry Month was more than the PAD Challenge though. For me. I had decided to honor the month by reading poetry every day, carry a pocket poem each day, and do the PAD Challenge. I knew the Challenge would be hard, but I didn’t realize how much time I’d have to spend to do justice to it and myself.

Regrets—Yes. Oh, I will do the PAD Challenge next year for certain. I have produced the best work this last month as I have in a good long time—Poetry, essays and short stories, but I haven’t had time to complete them or get them out into the world because of time constraints. (April is also the beginning of spring—I wait for it all winter. Gardening begins and you’re not going to keep me out of the dirty or away from the garden centers.)

I didn’t carry a pocket poem with me—not one day. I regret that, because I wanted to leave a poem somewhere each day, thereby introducing poetry to who knows who. I’m going to try to do that next year and prepare for that by ‘collecting’ thirty poems through the year, typing them onto the computer in preparation. Next year all I’ll need to do is print them up, put them on cardstock and carry one with me each day. I only need to find three poems a month that I love. Doable.

To prepare for the PAD Challenge, I’m going to practice this next year—writing poetry. And I’ll gather words and ideas into a PAD file. With that and Robert Lee Brewer’s prompts, I expect to write better poems for next year’s challenge.

I do think the PAD challenge helpful for any writer—fiction, nonfiction, or poetry writer alike. We all need that kick in the pants, a challenge, a change, some fun some time. Put this on your calendar for next April and challenge yourself.

Persistance

We don’t receive wisdom; we must discover it for ourselves after a journey that no one can take for us or spare us. —Marcel Proust

Last summer, in the space between cement wall and driveway the heart-shaped leaves gained hold and clung to the sun-warmed wall. By the end of July, the deep purple blooms opened to dawn, unfurling a color that never failed to pierce my heart. I watched all summer the morning glory’s struggle against the odds-sun, heat-trampling feet, my husband’s weed patrol, my own.
I never could bring myself to pull the plant or use weed killer. It seemed we had so much in common. That morning glory and I.

Trouble, interruptions, and life changes come to all of us. When it does it can bring your writing to a screeching halt. Adversity is going to happen. It’s just plain inevitable. Some something comes along and takes the wind from your sail. Something as simple as a flat tire, stopped up toilet or as bad as a sick child or a family tragedy. Things come along that throw your writing schedule to the four winds.

Those troubles, interruptions, that stress or life change is the stuff our lives are made up of. In a way, they are our blessings. What can you do about it?

The only thing to do is expect trouble, interruptions—life, in other words. Expect life. Make plans to deal with the problems you can control and realize, really know that sometimes life is going to take precedence over your writing. Be prepared for the stress. Embrace it. Take tablet and pen with you, note things during the handling of each problem. Don’t be embarrassed to do this. For all anyone knows you’re taking notes for dealing. And you are, plus you are writing. Don’t feel guilty about that either, because that is the nature of a writer is.

And remember, too, misfortune, adversity, they help us grow, give us experience, and a writer needs all of that.

So turn adversity, interruptions, misfortune into positives as best you can. Think about how you can use each for you instead of against you. Take the experience; note the feel, the color, the setting, the emotions—anything. You will use it someday in your writing. Guaranteed.
Attack challenges head on. This will prepare you to meet the next challenge better and your writing better. Writing is a challenge and it is easy to slump down and say to yourself, “This article, this poem, this story is hard to write. I’ll do something easier.”

Writing is hard. It’s supposed to be.

Published authors, every one, have met these same challenges, dealt with them and gone on writing. Despite everything. They’ve had stopped up toilets, jobs, aging parents, young children and writer’s block.

Bill Phillips said, those of us who go on, who have the courage to continue and to succeed in spite of adversity, become an inspiration.

Become an inspiration.

First 15 Days of PAD Challenge

I’ve made it over half way through the PAD (Poem a Day) Challenge (Poetic Asides with Robert Lee Brewer on the Writer’s Digest website) and challenge, it is. Great way to celebrate National Poetry Month, though.

Sounded simple enough when I saw it, too late, last year. (Last year would have been a wash anyway)

The challenge was to write a poem a day using the prompts Brewer provided, post it in the comments for each given day. Simple enough. The rewards-your poetry might get read by others in the challenge, might get published in the eBook, if you submit for every prompt (30)you get a completion certificate and a badge to place on your blog or website.

All good enough rewards, but the real reward is just doing. I’ve done several NanoWriMo challenges over the years and loved the way it pushed, stretched my writing and put a fire under my feet. This challenge did the same. Of course, I approached the whole thing the same, too. The goal in my mind was quantity as much as quality, maybe, more so. I let the challenge push me to just write the poem, worry about editing and working and polishing later.

Oh, I worried over the poem, rewrote and studied, researched, made it the best I could for one day, then I moved on. I felt I had to, to keep up with the real challenge. Write a poem a day.

These first fifteen days have surprised and exhilarated me. Those pressures—to get a poem down, polish it the best I can, then move on, got my head in the right place, first of all. Then, the challenge stretched my thinking, my writing, my output. I couldn’t believe what has been set free.

Some of the prompts have made me smile, some have made me groaning. I write anyway. (My motto) Nothing better than that. I write anyway because to meet this challenge that is all that is required—Get a poem down.

Another great benefit is reading all the other poems, seeing the talent out there, feeling a part of a community.

I am so glad I took this challenge. I hope I hold on to the feelings it’s stirred up, too. I plan to take the challenge every year I can, too.

There are a few things I’d do different next year. Simple things to prepare. I’d take better notes during the year and I’d stockpile words. I do this often with my writing any way, but more so with my poetry. I make word lists-finding words in catalogs, magazines, and newspapers and putting them in a file to be ‘used’ later.

I recommend the PAD challenge to any writer. There is still time to do it this year. Check it out at- http://www.writersdigest.com/article/poem-a-day/

Soundtrack

A few weeks back I read an article in my local paper about how music helps us cope. You know, you hear a song and you’re back to that heartbreak, that boy you were crazy about or that time when you thought you had the world by the tail.

The reporter of this article poised the question on his blog and his Facebook. He said he got a lot of response. The question does get you thinking, doesn’t it? I remember years ago on Ally McBeal her therapist told Ally to figure out the song of her life. That too, started me thinking.
Music, certain songs are the background of our lives. Hearing them again is one of the quickest ways to take a time trip into remembering. What songs get you thinking? What songs remind you of heartache and joy? What song do you use to get you through a tough time? Do you have new ones that help you or old standbys? What songs tell your story? Why?

As a young girl I would listen to my Disney records for hours or eaves-drop near my brother’s bedroom door, listening to rock n’ roll. Little April Showers, Love me Tender, Runaway takes me back to those simple times

Hey, Jude by The Beatles brings a smile as I remember entering my high school building early mornings singing with my best friend or driving the Boulevard, the windows down blaring California Dreaming by The Mamas and The Papas.

Music sustains us, holds us up. I played Barbara Streisand’s Don’t Rain on my Parade and Neil Diamond’s I am…I Said and Song Sung Blue and …well; I listened to a lot of Diamond’s music as a young mother. Danced around the living room with a baby in arms to Brother Love’s Traveling Salvation Show praying it was my salvation from baby blues and mostly, it was.

Annie’s Song and Sunshine on my Shoulders by John Denver as my oldest started the teenage years. Fire and Rain by James Taylor, Rainy Days and Mondays by The Carpenters, Said I Loved You, But I Lied by Michael Bolton carried me on.

More recently, If You’re Going Through Hell by Rodney Atkins, Stand by Rascal Flats and Stand Back Up by Sugarland speaks to me. What about you? Use this as today’s prompt. Go back, think about the music that stood by you, lifted you, whispered through your life. List them, listen to them, tangle up your now with them. Find a story, find your story. Remember and let the memories fill you with inspiration.

Post Script

National Poetry month begins tomorrow. There are several ways to get involved. Poetic Asides with Rober Lee Brewer mentions the April PAD Challenge. Check it out. You could win a spot in the poetry e-book.

NaPoWriMo also begins tomorrow. 30 poems in 30 days. Both sites have prompts, too.

If writing poems isn't your thing emmerse yourself in reading or listening to poetry. Read to your kids or find poems you loved as a child and let them read them.

April 30, 2009 is also Poem in Your Pocket Day: Pick a poem you love during National Poerty Month and carry it with you. Share it with your family, friends and co-workers on April 30th. Get your friends and family to do the same. Get your children interested in poetry. Some ideas on poets.org are: e-mail a poem, hang a pocket size verse in public, post a poem on your blog. Check out the website for other great ideas.

Make the most of the month. Just like NaNoWriMo you are not trying to write perfect poems. Just the ideas, the footprint. Later, you can revise, revise, revise.

Give it a try.

Regrets-I Got Them

I read articles about finding time to write. Nearly every one suggests using the time waiting for your kids at sport events, program and doctors offices. Go prepared with notebooks, project files and pen( when my children were young there were no cell phones, PDA’s, or Blackberry’s or laptops so those were not an option) The idea is sound. A lot can be done sitting in a car or on bleachers—an outline started, a character sketch rounded out, ideas listed, first lines grappled with.

Sometimes I feel guilty I didn’t utilize those abundant pockets of time. Maybe I’d be more successful now. Maybe, I’d have a book published or a chapbook in print. A heady thought, and sometimes, I beat myself up with the possibility.

I didn’t though. I spent those moments watching my kids play, or sing, or interact with their friends. I held my sick children on my lap, wiped their noses. I peeled oranges, doled out drinks, entertained the younger kids. Like those parents concentrating on taking video, who ended up missing the best part of the action, missing the cutest things their kids did, if I’d been writing I would have missed a good part of my children’s life. I’m glad I never took advantage of these times.

When I first started writing again, I promised myself I would never forget what was most important. It’s so easy to forget. Easy to get caught up in ambition and success. Everyone knows you must get your butt in the chair, do the work, knuckle down, write. And it’s true, of course. You must write.

But you must remember your life and what is most important there, too.

Did I lose a lot of good ideas? Yes. So often I was rushing from one child’s music lesson or sport event to another. Dinners to fix, treats to provide, neighbor’s children needing a ride. Will I ever retrieve the ideas and words I lost? Nope. Does that haunt me? Oh, yes.

Even now, I care for an elderly parent. I have huge blocks of time as we wait in doctors’ offices or in line. I could get more writing done if I utilized that time, but then, I’d miss my mother’s conversation as she reminisces, tells long ago stories. I’d miss getting to know my mother in a new, wonderful way. She takes my attention much the same way as my children did. Do I resent these moments with her? No, because I know those moments will come to an end, too soon.

And as every writer knows the stories are never silent. They go on whispering in your mind. Nagging to be heard, put down, exposed. I can’t completely ignore them either, but I quiet them as best I can with a promise of later, knowing all along that some stories will never be told.

But regret? No. I saw; really saw my kid’s triumphs, failures. I witnessed their heartbreaks, their joy. I was completely present. With advice, a shoulder, pithy remarks or a smile and a thumbs up. And they saw I was there for them, too. Priceless, I think now. They are adults with children of their own, juggling their own desires, jobs, and dreams. I’m not one bit sorry of the time or example I gave.

I’m not sorry about the time I spend with my mom either, getting to know her as a person, not just a parent, learning about her wishes and dreams and history. Am I losing writing time? Yes. Have I lost some wonderful work? Yes. Does that mean I may never be the writer I dreamed of being? Maybe. But it’s the price I’m willing to pay. I think it’s the price I have to pay to be the writer I’m meant to be, want to be.

I read this poem years and years ago in a writer’s magazine. It says it all, better than I can. It touched my heart so much with the truth. I keep it on a bill spike on my desk. It is a homage written by poet/mother, Laura Apol to another poet and mother, Lucille Clifton:

Tell me again about the poems you lost
and the babies you saved.
Tell me you couldn’t replace the children,
tell me you could replace the poems;
please tell me that lie because I, too,
have poems and children
and some days they play side by side,
tossing back and forth while I listen;
some days they fight to the death.

Writing Practice

I read an article in Byline magazine a few years ago about a method of learning to write publishable material in just three days. Three days. Worth trying, right?

It wasn’t a new concept. I’ve heard it mentioned in several writing books, even in workshops I’ve taken, but the idea was only touched on, never emphasized. I never took it too seriously. It even sounded a bit wrong, a bit like plagiarism until I read the article, “The Handy Method” by Don Lowry. Then, I gave it a real try.

The method not only helped the quality of my work but inspired my determination and inspired me. The method wasdeveloped by a woman named Lowney Handy. She believed in perseverance, self-discipline and imagination. More important was her belief that a successful writer should rub shoulders with other successful writers. For most writers, that isn’t always possible. Lowney developed a way to do it no matter the writer’s circumstance.

First step: Read the work of good writers, in the genre that interests you. Read every day. Buy books similar to the ones you want to write. Read them. Study them. I do what I call ‘work’ my books. Take notes in the margins, underline, study plot and wording. Make a note on everything I notice.

Second step: Out of the books, short stories, poems, lyrics or articles you read pick four you like best, the ones most like what you want to write. Type all four pieces onto a document on your computer, word for word. Use the correct margins, double-spacing, etc.

This sounds strange. It did to me, but as I copied the work I began to see structure, dialogue, plot, even punctuation in a new way. The process illustrated things I learned in other classes, cementing it in my mind in a much stronger way. I don’t know why it works, but it does.

You might think/fear that when you move on to your own work this would make you a fraud. That your work would be just a copy of the writing you had typed, but it doesn’t. Your individuality rises to the top. Only the gem of knowledge you've gained remains of the work you copy.

The physical act of typing cemented the things I knew and clarified the things I had a hard time learning. It made analyzing the genre easier, too for some reason. It works equally well for any work. If you’re working on a novel instead of something shorter, copy pages from the beginning, middle and end of several of your best reads.

Does this really work or is it just busy work? I asked the same questions before I tried this. My answer—the benefits for me have been numerous. Soon after I did this I got a short story published in a national magazine. More than that though was the improvement of the weak areas of my writing. I’ve always struggled with grammar, but this exercise reinforced much of the concepts I struggled to learn. My punctuation improved immensely, especially with dialogue.

I begin each day typing from the genre I’m working on that day. As a side benefit this seems to get my fingers and brain working faster than usual and I rarely stare at a blank screen. This method is a wonderful tool for any writer, on any level. Give it a try for a few days.