We Are Women, See Us Write

Earlier this month, in answer to the topic, I wrote that I am a writer.  But that's only a part of me, as it is for every person on this blog and those who read it and those who comment on it.

While those of us who blog here are writers, that isn't all we are.  We are mothers, daughters, sisters, aunts, grandmothers, daughters-in-law and wives.  We're single, divorced, widowed and married.  We work both outside the home and inside the home.  But the one thing we share is writing, and that's what's brought us together.

Take a picture of us all together, and you'll see the many differences.  Young, middle-aged, and older.  Blonde hair, brown hair, red hair and gray.  Tall, short, round and slim.  Yes, we're different, but we share one thing.  We are writers.

We're hard on ourselves.  Even after being published for 12 years, I still have difficulty telling strangers I'm a writer.  Forget about telling them I'm a published author.  Sure, in a group it's easy, even on the blog.  But on my own?  Live and in person?  Uh, no. ☺  Why?  Most people don't believe it.  Some people smirk in a "sure, you are" kind of way.  Others, like our own Penny Rader, encourage us to join WARA. (Thank you, Penny!)  And even others are excited and ask questions.  All of that has an affect on us, on our perceptions of ourselves.

We are who we are, each little part of us.

We look in a mirror and see what we believe is what others see, and even that is skewed by our own perceptions of ourselves.  Others see us in different ways.  There was a recent video posted to Facebook that was made in conjunction with Dove® soap/beauty products.  MSN carried it on their website.  Below is the introduction and a link to the video.  It's amazing!

Thanks, Dove, for this inspiring social experiment. In the video, various women show up separately to be drawn by a forensic artist who never sees them — the artist sketches them based on each woman's description of herself, then does another sketch based on how strangers describe each woman. Watching these ladies confront their less-attractive views of themselves before glimpsing the very different image of what a stranger sees is enough to bring on the tears. If you've never wished you had a different nose, brighter eyes or a better chin, you belong to an elite group of women who think they're beautiful — a measly 4 percent globally, according to Dove. So watch closely and stop giving yourself such a hard time.

 http://now.msn.com/dove-real-beauty-video-shows-women-they-are-beautiful

We see what we want to see: the blemishes, the dark circles, the wrinkles, the extra pounds.  We see our weaknesses, not only physical but internal, our fears.  What we don't see, and what others seem to glimpse, is our strength, humor, passion and love.  As writers, those are the things we convey in our words and stories.  We give our characters what we see in ourselves and our experiences in life and also the weaknesses we deal with or have dealt with in the past.  And then we strive to give our readers the happily-ever-afters that we all hope will be ours.

We are writers, and we've all come to it in different ways at different times for different reasons.

We are women.  We are strong, smart, funny and wise.

For Her (Melissa Robbins)

At the beginning of this month, I was unsure what to blog about.  The other WARA ladies posted about their value, passions, etc.  I thought about discussing my goals for the year.  Then, on January 11^th, my entire world turned upside down.  My youngest, who would have turned three this week, died suddenly.  As I write this, we still don’t know what happened or why.  It’s one thing to write about mysteries.  It’s another thing entirely to live it. 

I can’t bring myself to get up at 5 am and write, but here’s the deal.  There were times when I wrote on my computer instead of snuggling with my little girl while she watched her favorite show, Team Umizoomi or played ponies.  Times I will never get back. 

I know I can’t wave a magic wand over my story and get it published, but fear of sending out queries always held me back.  No more fears.  I owe it to my little girl to get my book published or go down fighting.  Then those missed opportunities won’t be wasted. 

I’m holding my writer friends accountable to nag me to edit my story, to enter contests, and get out those queries. 

The Gift of My Dad

I wasn't sure what to write in response to this month's topic: What one event in your childhood had the greatest affect on your writing career? Then I read all of the other great posts, most talking about memories of their fathers or family and their support.

There wasn't "one event" that affected me and led to my writing career. But there was a man. I was blessed with the gift of being the daughter of Jack Linus Tolliver. He was interested in anything and everything. And seeing the "what ifs" about so many things in turn allowed me to see them as well.

He was never afraid to try something that most people would think a bit odd...okay, borderline nuts. One of my favorite memories comes from the time when he was focused on the "magical" abilities of pyramids. He made a small pyramid to put his razor blades under so they would re-sharpen themselves. Bizarrely, they actually did. Then he made a pyramid big enough to set on his head like a hat, this was supposed to make him smarter (or something, I can't remember the outcome he actually wanted). He was always smart to me, so I don't know if that changed at all. But the picture of him wearing the hat is a family favorite.

My imagination runs wild at times and always has. From the childhood days of covering a table or a group of chairs with a blanket, then sitting underneath it and being in a world of my own making. To wearing a ruffly slip over my head, so that I could become a beautiful young woman with long hair. To spending time on my back, staring up at the ceiling, and imagining a whole different setting to the world around me.

Those childhood experiences have only allowed my imagination to continue running along the "what ifs." After all I have published 41 novels and novellas and 6 anthologies. I've created all kinds of settings and more characters than I can even remember. And, most imaginatively, I've created a romantic/daring cow (Blossom) with a bullfriend (Ferdinand).

Thanks for sharing your gift of a wild imagination, Dad. Your memory will stay with me always.

Nope, Nada, Nothing....

Writing? Childhood event? Nope. Nada. Nothing. There was nothing in my childhood as any kind of event that precipitated a writer such as me. Then I realized. Maybe.

Would reading the science fiction section in it's entirety when I was about fifteen fit the bill? Because all of that futuristic reading, as well as other novels had me thinking. It was obvious to me that we needed to find a way to limit human population before we turned the planet into a giant feedlot, like we have for cattle. But who do we trust the decisions to? Hitler had a final solution and no one trusts him anymore. No kidding. But all that shows is that man has his own agenda at who is more fit to procreate than others. Fortunately for man, mother nature and luck has been in charge of who survives and who does not for most of our human history. They need to stay in charge.

Since I'm scientific by nature, and influenced by the power of love, I found a solution and wondered how it could ever be implemented.

Only a handful of years ago, it became a story. Or rather the result of my internal ruminations became a story. The Proving Zone: Tory's Story. And then another, her brother's story--In the Zone: Pitin's Problem.

What are these stories about? How to survive the Proving Zone where you have to walk a thousand miles and survive before you're allowed to have children. You also have to survive your preconceived ideas of love, other people, your own abilities as well as primitive conditions. Each story has a happy, satisfying ending. Why? Because the real world can kick you in the head enough. Everyone deserves their stories to work out--we call that hope in action. We ought to be able to rely on that in our fiction.

Romance means hope. The world is a better place for it.

What one event in your childhood had the greatest affect on your writing career

Pat Davids here.

This is the topic for December. First and foremost, I had a great childhood. I lived on a farm. I was the only girl with four brothers. Okay, that part wasn't so great but I learned not to throw a softball like girl. We had chickens, as you can see, but best of all, I had my own horses. Three of them, Tammy, Trixie and Shawnee. I had great friends in school and I learned that books could take me anywhere.

I think the single event that had the most influence in all of my life, not just my writing, had nothing to do with books. It had to do with horses. My father had agreed to bring the neighbor's stud to our farm to breed to my first mare, Trixie. Since we didn't have a horse trailer and it was only a few miles away, we just drove over. I had learned to ride without a saddle and by that time I thought I was skilled at staying on the back of any horse. My big failure was being unable to stand on the back of a galloping horse. I was twelve and it was heartbreaking.

When we arrived at our neighbors to collect the stallion, I stood beside my dad holding a bridle while he did the talking. The neighbor frowned as he looked down at me. He asked my dad, "Who is going to ride this horse to your place?"

Dad pointed at me. "She is."

The man leaned close. "Clarence, I wouldn't let a little girl like her on this stallion. He's wild and he has a bad temper."

My dad's eyebrows shot up. "If she can't ride him, I'm sure as hell not going to get on him!"

Oh, I was so proud. My father thought I could handle a horse that he couldn't. From that moment on, I knew that I could accomplish anything I set my mind to because Dad believed in me. (Okay, I never learned to ride standing up, but it wasn't for lack of trying.)

Our neighbor didn't have the same confidence in me. His eighteen-year-old son rode the horse to our place while we followed him. As soon as we got home, Dad looked at me and said, "You are not to ride this horse. He is dangerous."

Yeah, right. I could do anything I set my mind to, remember? No way was I going to pass up the chance to ride a flashy stallion like him. The first time my parents left together, I caught the big pinto, climbed on his back and discovered that some horses have a terrible and uncomfortable gait. Riding him was like sitting on a jackhammer, plus, he seemed intent on biting me. No fun at all. I never rode him again. His colt, however, was an adorable brown and white pinto filly who grew up to have a much smoother gait than her papa.

So, that is the event that shaped my writing life. I learned to believe I could do anything I set my mind to accomplish. And, I learned that sometimes, what I thought I wanted wasn't the best, after all. That made me flexible. If it doesn't work, don't beat a dead horse, just find another horse to ride.

Riding stories anyone? What is your favorite or least favorite horse story, real or fiction?

By the way, I want to wish my grandson a happy 18th birthday.