Writing About Memories

I started reading through the latest posts on the WARA blog and came across Penny's "A Few of Their Favorite Things." I started to respond, but as I nearly finished it, I changed my mind. I wasn't sure what to write my own blog about until that moment of epiphany. I wanted to use what I was writing (a combination of a fictional character and modified memories of my own) for my blog. So here it is. Thanks, Penny, for nudging me toward writing this fictional memory.

Annie had watched her father begin slipping away from everyone and reality for the last few months. It was breaking her heart. He'd been the light of her life for so long. She'd looked up to him all through the years. Okay, they'd had their share of disagreements. But even during those times she'd loved him and he'd loved her even more.

She stood in her kitchen, fighting away tears, and thinking back over time. Her father had done so much for her, spent so much time with her. From the moment she could walk, she'd followed after him and he'd never minded. She'd learned to read sitting in his lap, and learned to give free rein to her imagination as well. Just as her father had done. She remembered him sitting on the side of her bed more nights than she could count reading her stories, sometimes just making up stories. Those had been her favorites. Even now they were the stories she remembered most.

Her mother had been gone from their lives a long time. Actually, she had no memories of her own about the woman who'd given birth to her. Her memories of the special woman were really her father's memories. She knew her mother had the most beautiful hair, soft hair, because he'd told her how he'd enjoyed sitting with her sometimes and brushing it, letting his fingers run through it. Her eyes were an amazing shade of blue...or green...or something. He wasn't really sure because he was color blind, but he loved her eyes and the way they'd danced with life. He'd loved her so much and he'd missed her every day since she'd breathed her last breath.

Blinking away tears, she knew it wouldn't be long before her father, too, breathed his last breath. She wanted--needed--to do something extra special for him at least one final time. What? What could she do that would show how much she loved him?

Her gaze shifted to her collection of receipe books on the end of the nearby counter. A battered and stained cardboard box acted as a book end. The treasured box had belonged to her mother. Her brothers hadn't cared about inheriting it. Her sister hadn't been impressed by it, either. But Annie had wanted it with her whole heart.

She moved toward it, drawn to the box, knowing it held the perfect gift for her father. Her mother hadn't even known how to boil water when she'd married Annie's dad. He hadn't care if she could cook or not. Eventually she'd learned to cook, somewhat.

She thought about the many times they'd made a meal together and he'd shared the gift of another memory of her mother. She remembered how he'd smile, sometimes laugh, when he told her about one of her mother's cooking disasters. He'd told her that he'd eaten every one of them without complaint. He would have bitten off his tongue before telling her how bad they were. He would never have done that to her, knowing how hard she'd tried to please him. She was what pleased him, everything else didn't matter.

Heart pinching and sniffing back tears, Annie reached a shaky hand into that magical box of memories. She fingered through the many tattered index cards on which her mother had handwritten in perfect penmanship receipes she'd copied from magazines and newspepers. She searched until she found the receipe that would mean the most to him: a cherry pie receipe.

When she found it, a smile slid into place and she clutched it to her chest for a moment. Somehow her mother had gotten the impression cherry pies were her father's favorite. She'd made him dozens of them during their short time together. But it wasn't until last year at a family meal with her all of the extended family when he'd chosen a piece of peach pie instead of cherry that he'd admitted the truth. He'd never really liked cherry pie. He'd never had the heart to tell her mother differently.

Yes, this was the receipe she wanted. He would eat the pie because she'd made it for him and together they would smile and laugh once more about her mother. And this would be one of her final memories with her father that she would take out every now and then to think about in the years ahead.

JUST DO IT

I’d like to think about the voices in our heads. I’m not talking about characters, but the voices that tell us about our capabilities. The voices can sound something like this: You can’t write. You can write part of a book but you can’t write the whole thing. It was a fluke, you did it once, but you can’t do it again. It’s going to dry up, and you won’t be able to write another thing. You didn’t win that contest so they think you can’t write. You didn’t even place in the contest. You got a rejection slip (or ___ rejection slips); you’ll never get published. You can’t diagram a sentence, why do you think you can write? Only your friends and family say you can write…they have to say that. See, you haven’t written in (fill in the length of time)…you’re not a writer. Or, better stick with what you’ve got, you’ll never make it with another publisher/genre/etc.

There seems to be a simple, effective answer to all of the above. It is to write. Just do it. Inigo DeLeon is credited with having said that the only cure for writer’s block is writer‘s cramp. It is true also for quieting the negative criticisms in your head. How can you be productive if you are busy thinking of reasons that you can’t write? The answer is to write about anything. It starts the creative juices flowing.

Try this: Next time you’re stumped,or want to quiet the negative voices, write a paragraph about the old woman that lives in the tumbledown cottage set back off the road. The front stoop is crooked, the house is a wreck, but the yard is magnificent. Every conceivable flower grows there. What is she like? Who is she? How do you know her? Why is there a gravestone out back behind her cottage? Start writing about her and your creative ideas will start to feed on one another, bursting forth into other areas, including your current story. Creative ideas are like rabbits. Give them the slightest opportunity and they become prolific. (By the way, I'd love to read your stories about the old woman...)

It doesn’t matter what anyone has ever said to you about your writing. If you are reading this blog, you have an interest in writing. KEEP WRITING. Just do it. Make yourself sit down and write. Something. Anything. Write a 'to do' list, if that’s all you can come up with for the moment. Just put your fingers on the keyboard, or pen to paper, and DO THE PHYSICAL ACT OF WRITING. Your mind will engage and start to produce. The physical act of writing leads to inspiration. Tell all the voices to shut up and write. Just do it.

Positive voices help us be productive, yet they can have a negative backlash. Remember the Rocky movies? Rocky won because he had, “The eye of the tiger,” a fierce desire (and need) to win. Sometimes positive voices take away the eye of the tiger. We can become complacent, or too comfortable, and thus, less productive. Or we can think we did it once but can’t do it again. Rocky lost the eye of the tiger and had to regain it before he could win again. Firmly put all the voices out of your head and just write…with determination. Just do it.

It doesn’t matter who has given negative feedback, whether it’s an editor, published writer, neighbor, friend, family member, teacher, or another aspiring author. Each person is entitled to their opinion. But they are just opinions. Many famous authors received a ridiculous amount of rejection slips before being published. Rejection can lead to better writing (see the last link below). Just because you are getting negative feedback from one or a few sources doesn’t mean you’re not a writer and not a good one. Just write and rewrite. Now, if every single source ever tells you that you can’t write, perhaps you should reconsider. But if there was one opinion, ever, anywhere, that gave you positive feedback (and I’m guessing there was or you wouldn’t be reading this), you have an audience out there that wants to read what you’re writing. Or, to put it another way, from the last link that follows, “If you like what you write, someone else will too.”

The voices can drive you crazy if you listen to them or worry about what they are saying. Tell them to shut up. There are also voices of emotion. You cannot wait until you FEEL like writing. It’s great when feelings prompt you to write. But what about when they keep you from writing? Ignore those feelings right along with the voices. And, there are voices of duty. Yes, you have a life to live, but these voices will stop you from ever writing if you let them. If you’re not ready to write on your current project, write something else. But write.

When asked for his single-best, most-important, can’t-live-without writing tip, John Grisham replied:
Write at least one page every day, without fail. If you’re trying to write a book, and you’re not writing at least one page a day, then the book is not going to get written.
(http://www.inkygirl.com/john-grisham-first-novel-rejected-28-times-advises-writers-to-aim-for-a-page-a-day/ )

Sit down in a chair with pen & paper or keyborad. Now, write. JUST DO IT.

http://httpwww.helium.com/items/1444307-how-to-use-rejection-slips-to-improve-your-writing

A Few of Their Favorite Things (Penny Rader)

I recently watched NCIS: Los Angeles during my lunch break and realized one of the themes of this particular episode had to do with prized possessions. Some of the characters had them, while others did not. It got me to thinking about writing and the things our characters treasure. I'm tickled so many WARA members have shared the items cherished by their characters.

In Sapphire and Gold, Alexandra takes her diary with her everywhere. Early in the story she finds a locket that leads her on a quest to find her family. Even though she has physical reactions to it, she keeps it with her. In If Tomorrow Never Comes, Jenna treasures her snow globes, especially one given to her by her grandmother, while Nick would be lost without his camera. In my current story I haven’t yet discovered what belongings my characters hold dear.

I found this Character Generator http://www.archetypewriting.com/muse/generators/character.htm online. Here are a few of prized possessions it came up with:

an unopened package

an old recipe

a set of lock picks

a tattered feather

a photograph that was torn in half

a mask

an empty wooden box

a library card

a scar

a coroner's report

Want to play? Pick a possession from the above list, make up a character to go with it, and let us know why your character values this object. Please share.

Do you have a prized possession? What would happen if you lost it?

Don’t be afraid of your talent.

I’ve spent the last few days trying to come up with a wonderful, exciting, and non-controversial subject for this blog. Didn’t find one.

The Bible is the best-selling book of the world. It has, between its covers, sex, murder, redemption, betrayal, a woman locked on the street and eaten by dogs, a child born in a stable, long trips, taxes, rich people, poor people, enslaved people, free people, people willing to kill for what they want, people willing to be killed for what they want and the list goes on. There is beauty and loyalty, directions, and history. Yet people do not read it for a chief source of entertainment—because there isn’t much. It reads like a news report because that is what it is.

Shakespeare, it has been said and there is a lot of proof of it, didn’t write an original story.He took other’s work and worked it over. He didn’t even bother to change the titles very much in any attempt to hide the fact he was using other’s stories. Writer’s of his time, whose work he pirated, wanted his hide—preferably tacked to a wall. But, when he took a story and bent it to HIS will, then it sang to the multitude. Writers had to bear the indignity of having their words half quoted with his as people on the street had a game of out quipping each other in quoting hisplays. It truly is a wonder he lived. And yet, when he had enough money to buy a sheep farm, he hung up his quill never to write again. His words, the way he wrote them, live on today three centuries later.

Why the writers chronicling the bible didn’t do more for the stories or why Shakespeare quit while he was at the top of his re-writing skills, we will never know. One thing we do know, talent may not be measurable, but it is detectable. Whether your talent is great or small, you have one.As those who choose to write, you’ve also chosen to use your talent. Then, let it OUT! Don’t be afraid that your writing may not sound as wonderful as someone else’s. Don’t worry that someone else seems to be writing hysterically funny lines where yours seems to droop. Each of us are given different gifts to use in different ways.

Where would some of us be without each of those who wrote the Bible? (There are other Holy written works for other religions. I am not as familiar with them so for the purpose of comparison, I choose this one.) Where would we be without Shakespeare and all the lovely lines many of us say without realizing from whence they came? The line, ‘whither thou goest, I shall go…your people will be my people” is a nice line for a wedding, but comes from the Bible and is spoken between two women. ‘Et tu Brute?’ Is from Shakespeare’s play and probably the most quoted.

When we are beginner writers, we don’t often know all of the grammar rules nor can we reliably tell a metaphor from our great Uncle’s left ear tuft. What we do know is that there is a story. Only we can write that story. For, if it were written by someone else, it would be a different story. Each of us have a talent to turn loose if we aren’t afraid to let it run free. Don’t hamper it by telling it that so-and-sot’s talent does it differently. So-and sot’s talent is supposed to do it differently.

Don’t duplicate the Bible. Don’t duplicate Shakespeare. Don’t worry. Just write.

Possessions for love

Pat Davids here.

Some months ago WARA members received a word list for our Mission Possible. In this list were the words, tower, silver, sword, ink, joker, master, rebellion, smooth and erect. Instead of writing a short story, I wrote a poem using those words. The night of our meeting I forgot to bring my Mission Possible piece and it has languished in my computer until now. Since the young man in the poem offers his prized possessions for love, I thought I'd share it with everyone.

Oh, Lady most fair, look down from thy tower.
Behold a sad knight bereft of all power.
Though I drew silver sword from hardened stone,
And was crowned a king, I am still alone.

The stars or’ my head in this inky night
Foretell not the end of this lover’s plight.
See not a king but a joker, a fool.
One who dares seek a most beautiful jewel.

Oh, pearl beyond price, oh, woman so rare.
Tis not thy ruby lips nor golden hair
that leaves this king mute as a tongue-tied youth.
Here in the dark I shall whisper the truth.

Tis the sweet gentleness in thy green eyes,
that pierces my heart as an arrow flies,
swift, straight and sure from the archers bent bow.
How may I win thee? What words must I know?

If gold and jewels be the price of thy hand,
I shall sell my steed, my shield and my land.
A king’s ransom I’ll pay to make thee mine.
For thy smile is heady as the finest wine.

Though I be master in matters of state,
tonight I’m a beggar here at thy gate.
Hoping for crumbs, just thy sigh or a glance,
to tell me my quest does yet stand a chance.

Mount no rebellion against my desire.
My love burns bright as the sun’s mighty fire.
Till thee lay thy smooth cheek upon my breast,
I fear my poor heart shall not know its rest.

The halls I erect, the castles I hold,
Will mean not a thing if I must grow old,
bereft of a joy filled life beside thee.
Oh, Lady most fair, I beg thee...love me.

Making Writing a Priority

Pat Davids here.

I can't seem to do it this month. I can't make writing a priority. Normally, that's not much of a problem for me, but this month it is. I don't have a single deadline hanging over my head at the moment. Deadlines for someone else, not my own, are strong motivators.

How do we keep writing high on our priority list? Why does it fall behind the laundry and then behind the dusting and finally behind Criminal Minds on some weekday night?

How do we put it at the front of the list and keep it there?

Isn't our writing important? Isn't it more than a hobby? Doesn't it deserve more respect than dusting?

What are your thoughts?
Pat

The Kick-ass Badass Love of Her Life

When I first thought about writing about something one of my characters held near and dear to their heart, I panicked. Oh my gosh! My characters don't ever do that!

And then I remembered Holly in Holly's Big, Bad Santa, one of my Christmas stories last year. Jared had been her high school sweetheart, the boy she'd hoped to marry after graduation. But he'd left town fifteen years ago, two days before Christmas, and hurt his parents and crushed her dreams. He'd left a note for her in a small box with a sprig of holly. "I have to go. I love you, but I've got to go." She still had that crumpled, tear-stained note after all these years. Now he'd returned. Now he wanted her back, but forgiving the town's bad boy wasn't all that easy. Even if the "bad boy" had returned as the sexiest, hottest badass with a wounded heart that was hard to resist.

Reading further into the story, I realized what a keeper of mementos Holly was, a heroine so much like myself. While searching for socks in a dresser drawer, she found the necklace Jared had given her their senior year in high school. A delicate gold chain with a small green, holly-shaped charm. He'd been so excited when he'd found the necklace in a catalogue and ordered it especially for her. She remembered how she'd sobbed in happiness as he'd ever so carefully put it around her neck. In truth, she hadn't gotten rid of anything he'd ever given her. It was all packed away in boxes in the attic, except the necklace. She'd always needed it closer to her than the attic.

Next I remembered another touching (at least to me) scene in Bah Humbug, Cowboy, a Christmas story published a couple of years ago. Lacey and Devlin had been married for a number of years. Like so many couples, they were both busy and went in different directions much of the time. She often traveled to give private barrel racing lessons and had been gone longer than expected this last trip. Devlin had missed her and looked forward to her return, but her best friend had shown up to wait with him for Lacey's return. Somehow they'd ended up hugging one another in comfort, and then she was kissing him right when Lacey walked into the kitchen and caught them. He'd been maneuvered into a compromising position by the "friend" who'd gotten too interested in him. His guilt was crushing, especially when Lacey looked so angry and so hurt. His precious wife wasn't ready to listen to his flimsy excuses and drove away. He knew they needed some time and space to get past this blow to their marriage. But darkness surrounded him, tore through him as the light that was his life drove away from him. Somehow he'd have to mend fences and get her back.

Christmas had always been a special time for them, with Lacey going all out in decorating. She'd decided to go back to him on Christmas day, determined to make things right. Going home was hard now and she wasn't positive she could get him to forgive her for being so stubborn about what had happened that awful day. Her friend had confessed she wanted Devlin and trapped him when she'd seen Lacey driving up. Her former friend. But that hadn't been all of their problems. Hopefully, they could work through issues within their marriage they'd both been ignoring. She just didn't know what to expect today and she was anxious about it.

Until she walked into the disaster that was her kitchen. Flour and goo covered nearly every counter space. Dozens of cookies sat cooling and there were two big pans of gingerbread cake. Her Christmas recipes! He'd tried his hand at making the foods she usually made for the holiday. How sweet. And what a mess! She grabbed a sugar cookie and followed the sound of Devlin singing in his rich baritone to "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer," his favorite song.

Then she stopped to stare at the living room. She'd forgotten all about decorating her home with all of their problems. She'd thought of that on the drive here and felt awful. Devlin hadn't had a happy childhood and hadn't celebrated Christmas until she'd met him. Now he loved that time of year. She'd worked hard every year to make the season special for him, going all out with decorations and baking. Evidently he'd taken over for her this year. All of her large Santa collection was displayed on the mantle, on the bookshelves, and on the end tables. Most surprising, though, was the eight-foot plus tree standing beside the fireplace, fully decorated with the ornaments they had bought together over the years. Devlin had just placed the angel on the top. He looked at her from where he stood on a stepstool and grinned like a young boy seeking approval for something special he'd done. She burst into tears.