I Hate True Love

"Love isn't always difficult at the beginning. No. Falling in love is easy. Love enduring is the challenge. And, if it's real. it does."

S.E. Hudnall

 I hate true love.

It sounds like an improbable statement for a writer who calls herself someone who writes love stories. A romance writer who doesn't like romance? She must be deranged or something? It isn't right! One has to believe in love to write love stories, yes?

And that's exactly where the trouble lies. I do believe in love. I can't stop believing in it. I don't believe in true love, I believe in real love.

Like Len Barry’s song, falling in love is easy. Not difficult at all. A spark. A glance one second longer than needed. The sound of laughter. A smile or grin that melts your heart. One single moment, perhaps dismissed at the time but long remembered after as the moment you fell in love.

Staying in love? Continuing to love? Now there is the challenge. It's easy to love when it appears to be some dreamlike destiny, perfect, and filled with roses and champagne.

Real love hands you a cold washcloth after a bout of morning sickness. Real love has no qualms about going toe-to-toe over something then stepping back and saying, “You’re right. I was wrong.” –sometimes even when you’re right.  Real love fights for its existence and never gives up. It finds its anchors in the everyday, ordinary joys of banal existence–.washing the car together on a sunny day, hearing the door open and a voice asking for you, standing up and feeling a hand on your shoulder. It perseveres against threat. Real love endures, finds happiness in every day moments, and smiles.

Yes, that’s my trope and I’m sticking with it. Yes, I write love stories.

 

 

Electrifying. . .Terrifying: The Road to Indie Publishing

I'm scared. . .almost to the point of pure terror. How's that for a confession? I emailed a PDF file I formatted and designed of Rain to two people, both who have been super supportive and helpful (weak word) of me and the book. It was a very personal edition as I did it strictly for them, even designed the front and back covers myself. As yet I don't know what they thought of it. I wrote that I was not expecting any critique or feedback from them on the current edited copy I used. But knowing the ways of one of them I believe I will get some there.

You see I've decided to publish Rain independently and electronically. I don't know how long it is going to take me. There is a lot I need to figure out. My personal goal? I'd like to have it out within the next fourteen days, a purely arbitrary deadline as I have no idea what I'm doing.

Dozens of sites are out there loaded with advice and how-to's but a simple checklist is hard to find. Something simple like this (which is far from inclusive or even in the correct order) :

1. Finish editing.
2. Send to copyright office
3. Get IBSN number
4. Find cover artist.
5. Format for electronic upload by doing the following (step by step instructions which are no more than two sentences long)

I'm finding most of the "lists" and "advice" overwhelming right now when I want all I want is a simple list I can check off as I go. Details I can go back for.

Maybe this is a case of "if you want it, you should write it." The idea does get me thinking. Not all of us process information in the same way. Perhaps I will journal my experience (away from this blog) and comeback with a list of my own.

Every journey begins with a single step.

 

Yeah, nice platitude, Shelia. And what if you're standing on a drop-off, huh?

Why Kill a Heroine?

 

 

 

 

She's right. So many male writers who write love stories do kill off the heroine. I remember a best seller in 1970 called "Love Story". The book was, of course, made into a hit movie. Everyone was talking about how grown men were coming out of the theater with tears streaming down their faces. Exaggeration? No, not really. I recall seeing the movie, not being super impressed, but both of the guys (it was a double date) had traces of tears on their faces.

 

Sparks does it. Segal did it. Shakespeare did it. A lot of notable male authors do it. OK, Shakespeare killed off the hero, too.  Come to think of it, didn't Sparks kill off the hero in The Horse Whisperer?

 

But why do they do it? I mean why do they kill off heroines? Predominately, anyway. I have a little theory of my own which may or may not hold water.

 

One word: perfection. It's probably not the best word but it's the best word I can find and what I am thinking may be just a little 'anti-male'. But thinking back on stories I've read I cannot help but draw the conclusion. If the love interest dies she never changes in memory. She remains beautiful, loving, intelligent, and full of laughter. Back to the original word: perfect, whatever attributes she embodies. The love remains perfect. It's never tested by time, marriage, children, and age. There is weeping for her removal at the peak of her life---the 'potential' of their possible idyllic life together. As a couple, they will never bury parents or (heaven forbid!) a child together. He will never forget her birthday and she will never forget he hates green peppers. Time will be frozen while everything is still perfect.

 

Killing off the heroine preserves all the romantic perfection. It will never change or be challenged by life and its circumstances. It does make for a beautiful love story, doesn't it? Romance . . . love. . . tragedy.

 

I can't even say I will never write such a story. I might. But I will confess that even though I have said my stories do not start with a theme a writing friend recently found one. After practice pitching both Rain and Snow with her, she found one. Yes, running through the both of them and so simple I was taken aback at first--- Love Endures.

 

She was right. It's there. I didn't consciously start out with a theme; I was just writing a story.

 

No, I probably will not kill off a heroine. It goes against my nature and doesn't fit my writing or my philosophy currently. I prefer love to change, grow, and endure.

 

 

 

 

 



Always Coming Home: A Touch of Memoir

A few months ago I posted some poetry I had written while on a visit to Vermont. The poem I started thinking about was "Always Coming Home."

I'm southern by birth and blood--over five or six generations worth. I can claim that much but even now when someone asks me where I am from I still equivocate. The question is not meant to ask you where you were born but where you grew up.

My high school graduation class Facebook page sometimes has postings where someone talks about the elementary schools they attended and with who. Do you remember? Have you seen so-and-so who played Little League with us? Or that time we did something in elementary school? So many reminiscences and questions. I read those postings with a kind of longing. Those kind of memories I don't have with any of those there.

Where are you from? Definitely a question to equivocate with. I can't answer it with any kind of conviction.

I grew up in many places as a child: my place of birth, West Germany (yes, West Germany, not to be confused with East Germany at the time) , Washington State, Hawaii, Oklahoma, and Arkansas. From birth to the age of 13 I never lived any place longer than three years and even when I did manage two or three years I never attended the same school two years in a row. Time was I could name every single one of them but not anymore. Memories fade as new ones shoulder them out. It's an inevitability and fourth graders don't keep diaries.

I am an army brat---a military gypsy who followed a father from post to post. Changing schools, making friends I knew I would not have the following year, and knowing that a house was just a house, all of them just shelter. Life was very temporary. Some of us did not thrive in such an environment; some of us learned to adapt. And with that adaptation came a few shortcomings.

I've never done the research; I can only relate my own experience and epiphanies.

Changing schools so often led to abrupt changes in curriculum. One would just start to learn something, enjoy it, and look forward to the next part—then wham! Not at the new school. They thought something else was more important. I recall being tested in late elementary school and placed in a group being taught the ‘new math’.  It was an abysmal experience, trying to twist my mind into different pathways after I had managed to finally make the ‘old’ system make sense. Then I entered junior high after my father’s retirement and some enthusiastic academic decided I needed to be exposed or something to advanced mathematics. The experience sent my brain into mathematical seizures and I’ve been mathematically brain-damaged ever since, always squeaking by, in high school and college, on the absolute minimum necessary.  And did I mention lucky? My college professor wanted to pass us math morons so much they rewarded constant attendance, laboriously completed homework, and graded on a curve. Bless him!

Making new friends and leaving old friends? Ah, friendship is the most difficult task of all. New post means new school, new neighborhood, and new faces. If you’re housed on post everyone understands and friendships form quickly. You have so much in common. Off-base is harder. You’re always the new kid. You can only do the best you can. But after a few changes you learn friends come and friends go. You can promise, once you’re literate, to write but it rarely lasts when you’re only eight or ten years old. I learned friends are not life-time figures. I’ve learned how hard it is to hang on to those you want to keep. And I’ve accepted I will never reminisce with anyone who can remember that tree house we found or singing at the annual May Day Festival. No one person, other than family, runs through my lifeline.

It all sounds kind of sad, doesn’t it? Not really. I remember all my friends with affection and a bit of nostalgia. Any one of them could walk into my life right now and I would be happy to see them. No anger parted us---just life circumstances. My welcome back would be as warm as if we never parted.

And ,yes, houses are just houses. Something composed of brick, wood, natural stone with tin roofs, asphalt roofs, and shingled ones. Some were larger than others. Some were prettier. I do remember most of them. Some of them were pits. One of the reasons we had so many addresses was my father could not be trusted to find a decent domicile. He took the first and cheapest place he could find without a thought there was a wife and two children who needed to live in it as well. My mother corrected his mistake on a frequent basis. The man could take care of a platoon of men but had no idea about what it took to take care of a family.

More than the houses, I remember the places we lived---the geographical and natural space that contained us. Snow and tall, looming mountains. Trees which shrunk me down to the size of Gulliver. Turquoise waves lapping against gray-white sand. The smell of ginger flowers. The sound of rain on coconut trees. A sky full of bright stars. Warm, green forests with spring-fed streams. All of these and more are the images of my childhood. I do not understand to this day why they impressed me, a small child, beyond any reasonable expectation. But they are there, indelible and full of wonder, just behind my eyes.

Now when I travel some place hits my mind and heart with just one word: home. I look out around myself and my heart says “home”.  I suppose since I don’t have a single place to say I grew up in this is a good thing. Perhaps it is a gift, this adaptation. I will never be lost. Wherever I go I am always coming home. So where am I from? I'm from here and I'm from everywhere.


Always Coming Home

Windswept grasses

Blue haze in the distance
Sand dunes sculpted in wind
Rainbows crowning mountaintops
Turquoise water lapping at sugared sand

Dark green fir and spruce

Burying their heads in soft gray clouds
A winding wet-black road
Where redbuds peek
Wide, muddy rivers and sparkling streams
My heart always says
I’m home—I’m always coming home.

 






 

Writing in a Crowded Room

No, this isn't about Nanowrimo, that mega-writing event taking over next month in some writing circles. I write every day so I don't need the incentive. It would be like performing the Heimlich maneuver on someone who isn't choking.

I've said I started late to writing and I've said my teachers in junior and senior high didn't see half my writing. That is all true. But I remembered something I did a very long time ago which should have told me something. The memory drifted back into my current consciousness after I asked someone if they would like to look at some character sketches. I may be a pantster in the plotting department but sometimes I think I overdo it a bit in the character department. Where did that come from? Where did that start? Very simple

When I was around 13 or 14, maybe younger, I started doing something when dragged by my parents to an event I didn't want to go to. Sometimes it was a public event; sometimes it was a family reunion where half of the people were unfamiliar to me.

I took a notebook and a pen with me. Looking around I would spot a face in the crowd that interested me. Where my older brother would start drawing a picture I would start describing their face, the way they wore their hair, what they wore, what caught my attention, how they moved. how they used their hands as they talked, their facial expressions. After getting down all I could see (but actually could not hear---I was never close enough to hear and too shy to approach), I would start my usual Pochemuchka-like behavior.

• What did they do for a living?
• What were they doing in that venue?
• How did they fit or not fit?
• Why were they happy or unhappy?
• What was making them feel/act that way?

Shall I stop now? I could write more questions. It comes easily to me. And, yes, out of all those questions a little story would arise. I didn't write down the story I'm sad to say and all of those character sketches have been lost over the years. Probably stuffed into a box and tossed out as useless later. I'd probably have them in a zip file if it had all happened in the Internet Era.

I do think it molded my method. Character comes first--story comes out of the character. I don't think I can state without hesitation my stories are character-driven. I don't think they fit that definition. It's more a matter of creating a character complex enough, real enough for them to tell their story to me.

How long or how well I can execute that method I don't know. But I keep discovering characters and listening.

An English Confession

Yes, it's confession time.

I always hated the analysis of literature in English, in particular the words theme and symbolism. I'm sure there were others in the mix. What is the theme of this story/book? What does it tell us? What I kept hearing was theme = meaning. I just wanted to read the story---not analyze it for meaning and I certainly didn't care what the rose bush beside the steps in "The Scarlet Letter" symbolized. I really didn't.

The insistence of my English teachers (hush, Barry, you taught me Spanish!) on all of that turned me completely off literature, especially in my senior year. My teacher was very sweet but I learned to loathe Thomas Hardy. I passed primarily because I could, as the old saying goes, : if you can't dazzle them with brilliance---baffle them with B--S--. 

No, I was not a good student and I doubt if any of them ever thought I would persue a writing vocation. Seriously. Well, except for Mrs. Langley in junior high. She was the one who encouraged me to continue writing poetry and tried to get me into honors English in high school. It didn't happen.

I took a journalism class but dropped it after one semester when I found myself tooling around town selling ads for the yearbook to local businesses. Journalism is a business; I do understand that. But there were never any classes--no instruction whatsoever.

College was much better. I flew through Basic Comp I and left the instructor wondering why I was taking it. Simple answer: it was required for my major. It seems a lot of students were having trouble writing a coherent sentence. I was having a problem with boredom. Technical writing was required for my nursing major and I did well in it but it was boring, too. Creative writing I and II sparked my interest at last; I did well there because I liked what I was doing. I was writing a story. That was fun! No searching for meaning, no analysis pending, no symbology necessary. Just tell the story!

No, I'm not writing the Great American Novel nor do I have any ambition to do so.  I will simply write the best story I can, put my heart into it, and leave the reader to decide if it speaks to them . . .  and all that theme and symbolism stuff.

“A book is never, ever finished. You simply get to a point where you and your editor are reasonably happy with how it is and you go with that. Left to our own devices, a writer would endlessly fiddle with a book, changing little thing after little thing.”
― Kimberly Pauley


Yes, I'm in the throes of revision and understand that quote far too well!

Bad Poetry? Of course, it is!

A poet who reads his verse in public may have other nasty habits.

Robert Heinlein, Time Enough for Love, 1978

 

 

I have found the quote by Heinlein I mentioned so many posts ago. I'm glad I remembered it correctly enough to google it.

 

I don't know if Mr. Heinlein liked poetry or not. Well, not beyond the odd limerick and the songs of Rhysling, the Blind Singer of the Spaceways from The Green Hills of Earth. And I think he liked Kipling. But beyond that I'm not entirely sure. I will leave it to more scholarly Heinlein students to answer that question but I don't think he liked many and the quote states that clearly to me.

 

I haven't been reading my verse in public but I've certainly been publishing it for all the world to see here.  I've never seen a study or made a survey but I can't help but draw the conclusion that a poet either considers their work to be very good or very bad. Yes, I consider mine bad poetry. Very rarely do I consider it good at all. Sometimes I think a particular poem approaches what I consider "acceptable" but that's about it. This isn't false modesty. To me it is simple fact.

Poetry is an emotionally dense medium to me. I love reading it but can only manage a couple of poems at a time then I must put it down and digest. If the poem is extremely dense I may put down after a few lines. My own poems are not as dense to me, which may be a matter of personal perception. On rare occasion they capture the moment and the emotions. I just keep trying. I have no ambition whatsoever to be a true "published" poet. Sometimes there will be one written especially for a friend who seems to enjoy it but that is as high as I wish to go.

One could, I suppose, study poetry, take classes, and 'bleed' on the paper (or screen) but that is so 'not me'. They are simply bits and pieces of my heart, however inadequate they may be. My heart sings and I, the musically inept, try to put it down on paper. So, to me, it's "bad" poetry---always "bad" poetry. If it happens to touch one person in any fashion whatsoever I smile and say "thank you". That is enough for me.

So, if you happen to like the poetry that appears here, thank you. And if you don't, that is perfectly alright. It really is. I will try not inflict too much on you. I do understand. It is bad poetry.

 



Regrets

A little note: Once again, I've pulled out an essay I wrote in the 90's. Why this one? I'm not really sure. I had a wonderful weekend in Vermont, met and made friends I want to keep, and fell totally in love with New England so this one is kind of an odd choice---I'm actually quite happy about my trip. My only regret about it is that I couldn't stay long enough.

Regrets

“Regrets I’ve had a few

But then again too few to mention.”

 

The Chairman of the Board had it right. . .at least at first. Everyone has regrets. . .soft regrets. . .hard regrets. . .heartbreaking regrets. . .and half remembered regrets. Yet to go around proudly declaring that we have none seems to be in vogue. Apparently it is considered psychologically unhealthy to have regrets. It’s incomprehensible. Regrets are so human.

OK, so is guilt but that’s not regret. Guilt is always over something a person perceives to have done wrong. Regret is a feeling of sorrow over not having done something or having done something incorrectly. They’re not quite the same thing.

After a certain length of time on this planet, one soon comes to the realization that there are some things they will never do or have. The vast majority of those things we can simply shrug off. There are some we cannot.

Do I have regrets? Oh, yes. I have two major regrets actually, although it’s difficult to call them regrets. And they will probably sound silly to anyone but myself. . .but, hey, they’re my regrets, not someone else’s. I cannot decide now in my life that I will do something about them; I cannot do anything about them. It is simply too late.

I regret that I have never been first in any man’s life. Sounds silly, yes? I have never been anyone’s first choice. . .never. Every man in my life has been someone else’s. . .someone he chose first. I will never know what it is like to step into a man’s life without it being occupied by others: an ex-wife, children. Physically, mentally, or emotionally, they’re there. I’ve never experienced a man in my life without them. At my age, I probably never will. I would have liked to have known what that was like.

I regret that I only have one child. Yes, I love my child dearly but I always wanted more than one. In all actuality, I wanted a bunch of them. I wasn’t infertile; I could have had more. Yet I had this strange principle. . .I would not make any man a father who did not want to be one. So one is all I have when my heart always yearned for more. Now time and biology are against me; I can have no more children.

Just a couple of regrets. . .probably too few to mention but nothing I can do about them; they remain regrets. I never do believe people when they tell me they have no regrets. Not really.

 

Excerpt or Snippet?

After posting some excerpts and a snippet from both finished projects and works in progress the thought occurred to me some may not be clear on the differences between the two. Excerpts vs snippets, that is. I thought I would take a moment and explain how I distinguish between the two.

A snippet is a piece of dialogue or scene I've written which concerns a particular character or perhaps thought about putting into the story. Sometimes it is simply back story; sometimes it's a piece of a scene that helps define character or back story but either doesn't move the story along or I took the story a different route. I don't pay a lot of attention to 'cleaning it up' because it's never meant to appear in the first place. It is always rough draft form. Sometimes I am thinking with my fingertips on the keyboard, formulating as I go. I actually write that way. OK, I do correct the spelling. I have a thing about words being spelled incorrectly. Don't get me started!

An excerpt is a piece from a work in progress. What I post as an excerpt is at least a first revision, not a rough draft. I have cleaned it up and it is part of the story. What I try to do is have enough so it does make sense even if I did lift out of the original  context.

My recent snippet from Rain--"Judith" is definitely rough and a little rambling. What it holds is back story and a look into what motivates my male character. The excerpt from Snow is an actual conversation taking place between my female character and her brother. The dialogue shows, not just background for the main story, but part of the plot development.

Now I shall have to think for awhile. Snippet or excerpt? Rain or Snow? I can't decide. Would anyone care to express an preference? Go ahead. It's easy.


First drafts are for learning what your novel or story is about.

                                                                                          Bernard Malamud           

Family Chronicles: Everyone has a story

I  posted the following on my personal Facebook page:

In Piedmont, MO: Headstone Dedication for my great-great grandfather tomorrow! And the motel has Wi-Fi! Cell phone coverage still exerting negative pressure but Internet seems pretty good. Yes, I will take pictures and post when possible. :) I'm a little excited! Henry Marthad died in 1906. The same year my grandfather married his first wife. I just realized that. But for one hundred and seven years his grave has been unmarked. Now it will be. I may never find my great-grandfather's grave or my grandfather's so I like this very much. I like a sense of continuity. . .history. . .and family. And everyone. . .everyone has a story. :)

Skimming through the web pages of agents and publishers I noted what they were looking for and what they weren't looking for. Family chronicles seemed to make the "don't want" list at very frequent intervals. I guess they've been inundated with such offerings. It kind of makes sense to me. I've remarked before about writing down stories of that nature to my own family and some of my friends.

I can also see, to a certain extent, why such stories bring on a glazed look in the publishing world. At least, I think I can.

Henry David Thoreau said

Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them.

My ancestors did not live extraordinary lives. I've done enough of a search on ancestory.com to know that. They were farmers, fishermen, and factory workers. They may have participated in history or simply been alive during historical events but they didn't write down their stories and, the bold truth of the matter, the only ones who are interested are their families. . . and that interest is held only by such curious descendants as myself and a few rare others. We don't know the true stories either, just simple facts.

My ancestor served from the beginning to the end of the Civil War as a Confederate volunteer in the Kentucky Calvary. At the end of the war he became a Mason and remained one to the end of his days. He had two sons and three daughters. He farmed and grew old. In his old age he lived with one son and then the other. He died in the home of a family who either simply took him in or was hired to take care of him.

For a man of his time it's probably a very ordinary life story. There is not much I can add to it. I could do more historical research and probably find a story to write but in the simple facts of his existence? I don't think so. Such a story would only interest me, a few distant cousins, and possibly my older brother who is an amateur Civil War historian. But  there is probably a story there somewhere.

I know--everybody has a story.



 

Charles: Eulogy

A small note: this is one of my 'old' essays from the nineties but it's not really an essay. It's a eulogy I wrote and gave (as one of three or four speakers) for a very dear friend of mine, the first, last, and only of its kind. If I have my way about such things it will remain so.

 

Charles. Not ever Charlie or Chuck. Always Charles. The last time I tried to describe Charles I was writing a new email friend in PA a couple of years ago when she asked me about friends I had here in Arkansas. Charles topped the list as he has for the last almost twenty years I think.

Well, he’s just a friend I told her. A dear friend, a confidante. He isn’t pretty but his eyes are warm and thoughtful and I’ve grown fond of his face over the years. He’s a character; I really should put him in one of my stories I told her. He belongs in one. How do I say this without being trite? Charles is unique. . . comparable only to himself. If you met him for the very first time you’d wonder for a moment or two. Is he teasing or not? Believe me. . .he is. Picking up a line of improvisational fussing and carrying it with you until both you and he started giggling. Changing subtly as the subject turned more serious. His voice a little firmer perhaps. You just knew. Listening with a calm, accepting intentness that is so very rare. . .and so. . .just Charles. I don’t think my PA friend knew what to think.  I know when I had written it there was still something missing. Ah, well. . .Charles was always meant to be experienced. And I don’t think anyone ever experienced him exactly like another. . . even though I know there were similarities.

Life never seemed to have enough experience for him, I think. He always seemed to be wanting to do more things. . . explore other things. I remember his stories about his brief career as an assistant to a funeral director. Harrowing. . wrenching. . .yet he told the stories with a deceptively light touch but again you knew somehow. He was horrified. . .not by death. . .but by the pain of those around it. He didn’t. . .couldn’t stay with it. Psychology . . . History. . . Law. . . . . .Justice. Always intent. . . perpetually curious. . . full of questions. . . and always interested in what underlined them all. . .People.

 

I have always thought in musical terms about a lot of things. It’s a curse really as I have no voice. . .no musical talent whatsoever. . . just an ear. . a cursed appreciation for the beauty I cannot replicate. But perhaps I can be forgiven for working in musical terms. . . making life a song. . . .a full fledged polyphonic chorus that grows richer and deeper every year of your life. One of the voices in my chorus. . .your chorus. . . is still. The cadence reached. And yet I know by its very silence how so much poorer the song of my life. . .the song perhaps of your life. . .would have been without that voice and how much richer that voice has made it.  I close my eyes and listen to my memory of the melody. . .and I feel. . .privileged.

 

July 20, 1997

Just tell the story already!

I like stories. I like telling them and I like hearing them. I recall a college professor telling us that southerners are natural storytellers. I don't know about that but it seems to be genetic in my female line. My mother was always telling me stories. And I have found other folks in my family and acquaintance who tell me they have stories to tell.

But they are so reluctant to tell them. I sometimes exchange an email with a cousin who recently told me he had been trying to tell his life story for quite some time now but everything kept getting out of order. I could hear his frustration. Maybe I misread him but this is what I wrote:

I'll give you a couple of tips about writing to get you started.

• Just write like you talk and to heck with what your HS English teacher said.
• Use a tape recorder (if you can stand the sound of your own voice) and simply tell the story to it.
• You have grandchildren. Do you tell them stories? Have Lynn get out a video camera and let her tape the event. Your children and grandchildren would cherish the recording. . .and you can write something down after.

The point is. . .don't let those stories go untold. DON'T Mama told stories all the time. I wish I could remember half of them . A story doesn't have to be five pages long. Some stories are/were just a few short sentences. Like the one Mama used to tell on Grandpa (Papa) and Grandma: One time Grandpa got mad at Grandma about something. He started in on her, apparently something fierce. And kept on and on about it until he ran out of breath and stopped. At that point, Grandma stood up , started clapping and singing an old gospel song. Grandpa stared at her like she had lost her mind. "Frankie! What are you doing?!" "Oh," Grandma replied, "I thought the preaching was over and it was time for the singing."

I loved that story. It wasn't long but told me so much about my grandparents. I bet you could tell a few just like it or similiar anyway. It isn't long; it doesn't have to be. Now your turn----tell me one!

 

Life is so full of stories and people who want to tell them. And so many are afraid their stories just won't be good enough. I certainly can understand that. But it begs the question: good enough for what? Telling your children or grandchildren? Your best friend? A group of friends?  A very large group of strangers? The audience will decide the value or merit of the story. Just tell the story already!

 

 

Yes, this all sounds a little presumptious. I'm not an author yet but I've simply heard people tell stories then dismiss their ability to tell one. My cousin isn't the only one I've ragged on recently.

Writing Clutter and Quilting Pieces

I find it interesting to go through old document files. One can find all kinds of interesting tidbits: poems you've forgotten (sometimes with excellent reason!), old letters you've written and thankfully didn't send, and snippets of stories you started but, for whatever reason, simply never continued with.

Heaven knows, I  have enough on my 'writing' plate right now but I found at least five things I started but never worked on. What happened? I dunno. Perhaps they simply weren't working or going in a direction that led nowhere. They should be deleted from my files I suppose, like stained tee-shirts you  don't want to wear out in public anymore and you know you only need so many 'I'll need painting clothes' in your dresser drawer.

But, like some old clothes, you simply don't want to toss them out. There must be something to be done with them. Maybe I'll just pack them into a zip file and call them quilting pieces. My grandmother did that and my mother did it, too. They might just make a nice quilt some day. The pattern may simply not be apparent to me right now. Shall we look?

Quilt Scrap #1:

Of all her incarnations and forms this one had worked best for the job; she had to admit it to herself. Margaret Cochrane could have modeled for any one's grandmother: not too tall, round and plump, carefully waved silver hair with a touch of blue, and a peaches and cream complexion. With just the right amount of laugh lines, of course. But she couldn't say she really liked it, although people did seem to respect it. All right, except for that time in northern France during the witch hunts. Her resting quarters seemed to mirror her form. Comfortable, lived in, and filled with a hodgepodge of human artifacts.

 

"Margaret!" The call was getting shrill now.

"I'm coming! I'm coming!" She called back at it. The glass surface of the antique mirror was mottled to begin with; now, it was swirling and twisting with all shades of gray and a touch of purple. Really, Max had such an old fashioned approach to communication. The last time in the office she had tried to talk him into getting on the Internet or maybe just a fax machine.


Quilt Scrap #2:
 

The screeching howl was ear-shattering, an angry, full-throated note that cleaved through the air and seemed to hang there for several seconds. Daria cowered beneath the rocks, unable to move and unable to look. Her eardrums rang despite the hands she clasped over her ears. Above the ringing came another sound. . .speech. No, not a speech. A word, a single word.

“NO!”

The timbre of the voice was unlike any other. It was almost human with an underlying hiss and vibration that coated her skin with terror. It was a shout. Sheer volume told her that but the words were human.

 “INVADERS! MURDERERS! DAMN YOU ALL!”

 Daria opened her eyes at the epithets. Cowering under the rocks was no longer an option. She didn’t care what Philippe had said; she didn’t care about the terror crawling over her skin. The one who was shouting those words was a threat. Fear and shame coated her inside. Phillipe was in danger and here she was cowering in the rocks like a coney, leaving her brother to face whatever it was with only the semi-useless Mark at his back. She was the trained one, not him.

“NO!” Daria shouted, a faint echo of the booming voice. She ran out of the cover of the rocks, slipping a steel-tipped arrow into her bow. Her eyes really didn’t start to focus until she drew back and sighted along the arrow’s shaft. Phillipe was no where to be seen but a dark figure loomed on the mountain’s edge, a winged figure with a tremendous span. Where was the owner of that voice? She glanced swiftly left and then right. Phillipe’s fallen figure laid deadly still with a simple dagger next to him. Idiot! Where was Mark?

“NO!” She shouted again, sighting down the shaft once more. The creature started to turn. Daria let the arrow loose and had another one ready to fly without even thinking of it. A sudden gust of wind threw up a cloud of dust and small gravel. Daria’s vision was cut off as the dust stung her eyes. For a few seconds there was nothing but darkness shot with only brief spears of light. It was enough. A pair of large strong hands seized her wrists, striking her bow from her hands. Daria strained against the thumbs but was only partially successful as her free hand was immediately grabbed again and her arm twisted painfully behind her back. There seemed to be a dark wind rushing all around her.

“Let her go!” It was Mark’s voice. “You don’t want her! You want us!”

“No! I want you to suffer as you made her suffer. Men! The Storyteller was right. You are killers of life and hope. You took mine from me now I will take yours!”

 

 

Scrap or quilting blocks? I'm not quite sure.

Change Always Change

Over the holiday season I attended a reunion of my high school class. A commonplace activity many participate in over the years but this traditional act was one I had never participated in before. I don’t know exactly why I hadn’t. Perhaps there were more important things going on in my life every time a reunion came up. Life happens that way.

But it had been forty-two years since I had actually seen most of these folks. Sad to say, perhaps, but high school simply didn’t mean as much to me as it did to others. I guess, as an army brat, I simply had changed schools too many times to get attached to any one particular school. I heard of the get-together on social media, participated in the discussion about it, and signed up to attend, so I did.

My high school graduated about 600 students in 1970. I remember in an assembly of our sophomore year we were told we would be the largest class to ever graduate. Oh, yes we were a large class. It was an easy time and place to get lost in. No way could we all have known each other, much less remember each other.

Less than forty of us met that night at a well-known restaurant. So few out of so many. Some had gone, some moved too far away to return for the little affair, and perhaps some who simply wanted to stay home instead. I could not help but think as I looked around the small gathering about those ubiquitous notes we all wrote in each other’s yearbooks: “Stay the way you are.   .  . Don’t ever change” Oh, but we had! I was reminded of a little piece I wrote long ago for my personal web site:

Change

Benjamin Franklin said there is nothing certain in this life but death and taxes. Benjamin Franklin was wrong. There is another constant in the universe other than death and taxes. It is change.

Change always happens. It happens whether we want it or not, like it or not, will it or not, accept it or not. It is always with us.

Life changes; circumstance changes; people change. Despite all the fervent wishes that were written in our old high school yearbooks: "Stay the way you are. Don't ever change.", it happens. The streets we once knew well look different now and lead to entirely different places. We look in the mirror and say, "Who is that? That can't be me. My hair is longer . . . shorter. . .darker. . .thicker." But it is us.

 Change. Sometimes subtle; sometimes obvious. Creeping up on us so slowly we barely note the difference. Blowing us into new directions so hard we do not have time to take a breath.

 Children grow up. Parents get older . . . frailer. That stretch of wilderness we explored and loved is by the freeway now and Wal-Mart is building a store there.

We can grab a branch and try to hang on. We can close our eyes and refuse to see. We can stick our fingers in our ears and sing songs very loudly like we used to do when we were children. It still happens. Change . . . always change.

Love: A Scientist's Findings on Love and the Brain

I found something I thought others might enjoy. I'm a bit of science freak; it keeps me rational. But, hey, there are worse science things to research than love.

 

 





I also like it when even science admits there are components to the human mind and heart which cannot be fully rationalized or understood. The rational side of my brain says, "Well,not yet." and my heart asks, "Is that really so important?"

Beginning a New Season

This year will be ending soon and in it I 'celebrated' my sixtieth birthday. Actually there was no celebration of any kind which suited my contemplative frame of mind. I've watched other years flow by without much of that except on rare occasions. This year was different. Both of my parents were gone and I was reading about the passing of old high school classmates on Facebook, one by one. There are still a great many of us left but it brought home to me with crystal clarity one simple idea: I had stories to tell. Yes, stories half-written. Outlines and character sketches. All begging to be completed. . . to be told. Now. I half started at 40 when my husband died but other issues pressed in, along with other negativities.

1. You are a highly and expensively trained professional and you want to give it up for what?
2. You can't support yourself writing. No way. No how. Even if you could, it's not going to be a decent living. You like beans and cornbread?
3. Do you actuallly want others reading your stuff? Who would pay to read it?
4. Do you really have anything to say or contribute?

OK, number 1 is accurate in the first part. I am a highly and expensively trained professional but even though there parts of it I loved I was not happy with other parts of it. No, I don't particularly like living on beans and cornbread (a carry-over frugal plan from my childhood/early youth) but I can do it. The decision to write comes from my heart where my profession came from my mind.

When it comes to number 3, does it matter? Does it really matter? Oh, yes, it does. I want my stories to be read. I do want audience. I have one story, rough and in need of editing, posted elsewhere and it surprises me how much I want that. If anyone will pay to read it that would be a bonus. It really would but I am at the point where I hav to write those stories regardless. Whether or not I have anything to say or contribute I can't really say. Readers will make that decision. I did take 12 hours of writing in college and remember my professor explicitly telling us to refrain from putting 'meaning' into what we wrote. It would come out.

So here I am at another season of my life. It's time. Hence the title of this blog: Different Seasons. What will it consist of? I'm not quite sure about everything. There will be poetry, an occasional essay, and more. We will see.

Today's Quote:

"Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma —which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of others’ opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary." -Steve Jobs