A Writer’s Education

By Sharon Ewing

While I’ve sometimes been uncertain about the path of my career, I would have said it wasn’t the case of an identity crisis.  Yet this past year I’ve been so immersed in researching and writing about my ancestry that it appears I may be mistaken about that.  My oldest sister, the family historian, did an admirable job researching our family in the days when internet access was rare.  After she passed away, the task became mine.  This happens when siblings flatter you with platitudes about your skills in research, writing, etc.  So, I set out to fatten the existing files and hopefully discover hidden treasures in my lineage.

I’d always intended to write a novel about my childhood in the 50’s.  But as I researched my Irish ancestry, my great-great grandmother’s life intrigued me, and she became the main character in my story.  Funny thing about this process is that I knew few specific facts about her. And since everyone who once knew her was dead, I resorted to fiction in order to flesh her out.  As the story progress, I’m sure the character I created didn’t remotely resemble my great-great grandmother, but by that time I was so invested in the story, it no longer mattered.

In the process, I’ve have researched more about Irish history than I ever imaged possible.  I’ve dug through facts on websites, in non-fiction books, internet archives and drew names from ancestry websites.  I have garnered a new respect for historical authors who produce engaging stories after endless research, so much so, that I forget I’m reading fiction.  Edward Rutherford’s book The Rebels of Ireland, is a proven gem in this field. 

I’ve always loved history.  I remember walking home from school carrying a very cumbersome world cultures textbook, in the era before backpacks.  It was the first day of school that year.  My older sister remarked about the cruelty of my teacher giving homework on the first day.  I told her that I didn’t have homework.  I just wanted to bring the book home so that I could look through it.  When I told her about how I loved the smell of new books, she looked at me like I had morphed into an alien from another planet.

In historical fiction, I can combine my two loves.  I just need to be extra careful not to make the mistake of inserting my fictitious characters into my ancestry chart.  I almost did that once.  However, another bonus of this writing is the intense respect I’ve acquired for my forebearers who lived in challenging times past.  Knowing more of their history demonstrates how we all struggle with the set of circumstances we’ve been given and how much these outside factors influence the path each of us will take.

When I know their history, my characters are free to come to me instead of trying to force them on the paper.  With the setting in place, like actors on stage, their story unfolds. Yes, writer’s block still besets me, but I’ve become more patient.  Eventually, they speak and I write.  Their story becomes a part of mine.  Lesson learned.

 

 

 

Why I Journal

By Sharon Ewing

I believe the reason some writers have dismissed the value of journaling is due to its definition.  Webster defines journaling as “an account of day-to-day events”.  Notating mundane everyday acts isn’t going to interest anyone except the writer, with rare exceptions.

That definition pretty much describes the first journal I kept as a preteen. Growing up in a family of six, sandwiched between and sharing a bedroom with two sisters close in age, there was little privacy, but my precious pink diary had a lock and key.  My journaling experience had begun.

Writing after that consisted of school assignments. Then parenthood arrived, along with a teaching career replete with papers to grade and endless lesson plans.  Free time didn’t involve paper and a pencil.  All that changed one day at dinner as I listened to my kids teasing one another about an earlier childhood incident that I had forgotten.  I thought about how my siblings and I enjoy reminiscing whenever we get together, laughter filling the air as we share the events that keep us connected. I dug out a spare spiral notebook, and set out with a new resolve.

Soon a business opportunity initiated a family move South. Myriad changes that accompany new jobs and an unfamiliar location along with adolescent angst provided new fodder for daily entries, along with a new reason.  I poured emotions onto page after lined page.  Both writing and rereading the entries eased some of the turmoil impacting these years together. 

Journaling proved to be an even more valuable outlet when I couldn’t voice the agony of watching my dad sink into Alzheimer’s and when my husband suffered a heart attack miles away from home. It became my best friend in a place where I was a stranger.  Through the births of my grandchildren and the deaths of several more family members, including that of my daughter, I filled lined pages with questions and ramblings, emptying myself each night before crawling into bed hoping to sleep.   More recently, in our first covid year I began a morning journal with statistics attempting to find sense in all of it. It helped. 

Today my stack of journals, all shapes and sizes, are tucked away on a shelf in my closet, my memories, heartaches, questions, prayers, and ramblings, the pieces of my life.  I don’t know how or why, a cheap spiral bound book replete with ramblings of the soul can bring some peace of mind.  I do know that it doesn’t matter if I ever use them to create a memoir, a story or two, or even if I ever read through them again.  Their greater purpose, to complete me.

RATIONALITY AND THE WRITING WORLD

By Sharon Ewing

“Writing is not a rational act.” I had just tuned to NPR in the car, and that statement surprised me into yelling at the radio, “What the …?” As I listened, the host referred to the person speaking as a psychologist. Here I must admit my skepticism of relying heavily on psychological thought, despite a long relationship with friends in the profession. This is the result of raising children and dealing, as a teacher, with students and their parents who were psychologists.

It’s only in the last few years that I’ve come to accept the label of writer for myself. Before that, even the thought made me feel like a phony. I’ve had just one accepted submission, and that one being rather pedestrian. I wasn’t a Hemingway, a Conway, a Bronte. I believed these famous people and others would turn over in their graves should I label myself a writer. But a friend gave me Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird, and that book, along with encouragement I’ve received from so many published and non-published writers, has allowed me to feel more comfortable with the description. Was this psychologist calling all these wonderful people irrational? I was offended for myself and them. Surely a rational being cannot be happy pursuing an irrational career.

I thought I knew the definition of the word ‘rational’ but maybe there was something I missed. I consulted with an expert on the matter. Pulling into the driveway, I grabbed my phone. Yep, Webster still defined rational as “having the ability to reason.” I checked the thesaurus for related words and found: intelligent, thinking, analytical, logical, cognitive. It sounded like me, someone with degrees, someone who analyzed everything to death, and knew she’d never live long enough to know all the things that she wanted to know. I also had proof that I was a rational being. One year my kids bought me a blue nightshirt. On the front was a huge picture of that famous orange cat and underneath were the words, Virgo (my astrological sign), an analytical, picky, worrywart. Both Webster and Garfield couldn’t be wrong.

Stepping into the house I turned on the radio to continue listening to the program. By the time I tuned back in, the host was speaking with an artist about how he accessed the creativity apparent in his work. I began to realize the show wasn’t specifically about writing, but about creative thought. It was not the person (the writer, the artist, etc.), but the process that was the topic. By the time I realized my mistake, the host had returned to the writer once again. He mentioned how every writer must allow freedom for ideas to flow, because many stories and characters are amalgams of people and memories storied in our subconscious.

My claws retracted; my metaphorical balustrade tumbled. And embarrassingly, I had to admit. I, a writer and a rational being had jumped the gun, acted hastily and sorry to say, acted irrationally.

Writing Someone Else's Story

 

By Sharon Ewing

Writing a historical fiction novel about a real or imagined person becomes a journey of telling someone else’s story.  I use the word journey because like many of my trips, it’s one filled with anticipated adventure and unexpected pitfalls.

If the character is a different gender from the writer, the challenge is to stay true to a male voice, and this is where I draw on the many stories I’ve read and movies I’ve viewed portraying strong male characters. Of course, the tone of the male voice depends on the strength of the male character himself.  The same applies to the female voices in the story. 

Another pitfall is keeping my story and my emotions from becoming too much a part of any character.  Like all writers, I possess a lifetime of experiences and those events determine how I view the world. Universal emotions of love, joy, sorrow and pain are part of every life and of every story I’ve read.  But each character in my story must provide and process their own set of emotions and the resulting lessons from the obstacles life throws into their path, thus I can create a diverse, interesting and even thought-provoking cast where no one character resembles me.

I love reading and writing about characters in places and time periods other than mine.  Doing this draws me into research, another of my favorite activities. But I’ve learned I must limit my enthusiasm for information, taking only what I need for the story, refuse to be drawn into the next interesting fact. It’s my Achilles heel, both an adventure I love and a pitfall where I can lose all sense of time.

A sense of place, of course, is critical.  I get some of this from reading, but to actually be there adds a dimension of experience that inspires me in a way just plain research can’t.  On a trip back to my birthplace I was recently driven to write a personal essay about the layers of history there. A set of historical maps also helps create a concrete sense of place.  I have a map of Philadelphia tacked on my wall where I write, the setting of my current story.  It helps me see the physical lay of the land which hasn’t changed since the city was developed, and I’m planning a trip soon to walk the streets and inhale all historical aspects.

Another important aspect must be the correct vernacular of the time, including accents, brogues, regional language, vocabulary and sentence structure.  Exploring the many ways the Irish used words to express their feelings, expound on their superstitions and religious phrases, has given me some moments of amusement and has solidified the time period of the story. 

The more I immerse myself in creating this historical fiction story, the richer my life becomes.  I don’t think I’ll ever live long enough to learn everything I need to know to become a proficient writer, but the journey is well worth the effort.

HOW WRITING HAS IMPACTED MY READING

By Sharon Ewing

I’ve always been an avid reader beginning with picture books, illustrated classics, fairy tales, and even textbooks. As a youth I read compulsively, even the cereal boxes we sat on the breakfast table before school.  I wasn’t exactly a discriminating reader. My sister looked at me as though I’d lost my mind when I told her, as we walked to school, how excited I was to get my new textbooks. I just loved words. I loved learning about anything new.  In my teen years, dad and I would walk to the library and lug home an armload of books. I never thought about how a story was put together, or much about the person behind the words.

I’ve always liked books with tons of detail and words I’d never encountered. I’ve poured over Hawthorne, Cooper, Michener, Tolstoy and reveled in their marathon-like sentences, using punctuation I knew I could never hope to imitate.  I sat many summers with my head in books required for the next year.  I could choose a few.  I read them all.

 I continue to be a lover of detail and vocabulary, but now have a deeper understanding of the beauty of simple concise sentences as well. I understand better the need for sentence variety. Through new reading choices, I’ve developed an appreciation for different styles.

Now I’m not so much a compulsive reader. I’m much more likely to discard a book when the plot lags, the characters need a transfusion or the dialogue becomes redundant.  Before my transition from reader to writer, I often felt guilty when I didn’t finish a book.  If someone had asked me why I didn’t like the book, I would have likely have said that it had become boring; I’d lost interest.  Now when I discard a book or a story, I can usually detail the reason. 

I still carve time out of my day to read and enjoy many different genres, but I observe my story more, as I read. I have found authors who can satisfy my love of place through poetic description but also move the story and the reader more through action scenes and dialogue. I’ve studied their economy of words, and my writing has changed because of these stories.

I believe we all go through an evolution of reading styles and genres from cradle to grave.  But I don’t think I’d ever have become as engrossed in analyzing the elements of a great story along the way if I hadn’t chosen to try my hand at constructing my own stories.  We can never know, as we chose a path to explore, what lies ahead.  My adventure has just begun.

INNER CONFLICT

By Sharon Ewing

I’d been introduced to the works of famous authors throughout my educational career and while I loved to journal, never identified as a writer. All the authors I knew were famous people. How smug to even place myself anywhere near the company of these renown men and women.

But what about those of us who maybe never aspired to be famous; those who simply feel compelled to record our thoughts, our memories, our stories that maybe no one will ever read? I began a diary in my teens and have a stack of journals I’ve kept through the years that attest to my passion for writing. Yet, I’m only now getting used to the idea that this fervor for the written word means I am an author.

A few years ago, a fellow parishioner stopped me and commented on an article I’d had published.

“I didn’t know you were a writer,” she said.

I almost said. “I’m not.” Instead, I smiled and thanked her for her kind comments. I just thought of myself as being lucky, not as being good enough to be called a writer.

Despite my poor self-concept, I continued writing; still journaling, memoir items, inspirational, short stories. I couldn’t help myself. I needed the written outlet to feel complete and finally was forced to admit my addiction, albeit a good one. The problem wasn’t with my passion, my heart, my love of writing. It was in my head. My heart and head were in conflict and the only way I could change it was with self-talk.

That’s proving harder than anything I’ve attempted to write. “You are a writer.” I say this as I sit at the computer. “You can be a good one and will be one day.”

So, like everyone else who writes, I have those days when my fingers seem to fly across the keyboard and I become so engrossed in the story that I become one with it. Unfortunately, I have more of the days when I’m convinced that even if my story is ever complete, no one will want to waste a minute reading it. That’s when my head takes over and refuses to listen to my heart.

Maybe I also need to stack my journals nearby so I can see the passion that led me to record my thoughts for years on end while working, raising children, and keeping house. Whatever it takes, I find that I need to stoke the embers of passion each time I sit at the computer, bringing heart and head together, even letting the heart have a handicap out of the gate.

I am a writer.

WRITING LESSONS

By Sharon Ewing 

I don’t have an English degree and never took a journalism course, so I suspected writing my first novel might not be an easy task. But having endless books on the subject and a dedicated group of writers willing to critique my writings, I was ready to do battle. I figured, the more armor I could gather, the better my chances of winning this war of words. I believed, innocently enough, that I’d readily accomplish my goal. Grammar, punctuation and other structural elements were easy-peasy, having taught them over and over ad nauseum for the last several years. Now, I expected I’d master all the intricacies of plot, character development, tension, crafting dialogue and everything else needed to fashion an enjoyable narrative and planned on having my book ready in about a year. I set this goal shortly after retirement, nearly two years ago and true to my expectations, I’ve learned a great deal.

I’ve learned that the road to success is “paved with good intentions.” Mine, I discovered was also mired with innumerable procrastination habits. I indulged in my natural gift for organization to the limit. But setting up my desk, sharpening pencils, arranging my files alphabetically, and buying supplies, sooner or later had to end and putting words on the paper had to begin. I’ve learned that my cell phone is another great distraction, and I must put it out of reach, or I’ll find myself checking e-mails, texts and, oh yes, it’s my turn on “Words with Friends.” I love natural light, but discovered I can’t be facing the window or I’m soon lost in whatever is happening at the bird feeder or daydreaming because something outside triggered an errant thought.

I’ve given myself permission to clear a portion of my day for what I want to do – write without guilt. I’ve learned to put aside the thought of my house gathering dust or worry about the dirty dishes in the sink when I’m writing. (No one is coming during COVID-19 anyway.) I’ve learned it’s okay to tell my husband, “I’m writing when the door is closed, please don’t disturb,” and believe it won’t send me to neglectful spouse’s hell for eternity. On the flip side, I’ve also discovered how supporting other writers can be when presented with copy that is, no doubt, far below their standards, along with their willingness to offer suggestions and encouragement at the same time.

The naïve expectations and assumptions I began with have been disproved. I’ve called out my procrastinations and hopefully exorcised most of them. In short, while the bulk of the novel still resides in my head, and I haven’t come close to the time expectations I now understand were unreasonable to begin with. Yet the many lessons I’ve already picked up on this path allow me to forge ahead. I remain undaunted!