By Kim Byer
I’ve spent most of my weekend changing a closet filled with turtlenecks and boots into one filled with tunics and sandals. This is my rite of spring: turning my clothes palette from black, gray, navy and brown to white, pink, tan and turquoise. And as I fold one last coat into a lumpy square and place it in the cedar chest, I complete my ceremony.
My chores are over. It’s time to write.
“Not so fast,” says my inner voice. “You need space!”
And so I clear my writing desk. I throw away torn tickets; I stack magazine clippings; I roll strands of used Christmas ribbon into small golden nests. I uncover an expanse of waxed, wooden possibility where I place my laptop. From my desk, I can see my entire backyard. The peach-plum tree is in full regalia, its giant arms waving in the wind, vivid with pink and magenta flowers. It demands my attention. After all, its parade only lasts for two weeks.
I walk outside—I know, I’ll write by hand.
I drag my chair across the lawn and my dog barks, wanting to participate in this unfamiliar game. My inner voice sinks inside the wake of a small plane flying above in the clear, afternoon sky. Lining the wires, the birds are chatty with travel gossip. Nearby, a lawn mower crawls across the new grass, moaning like a monster. My inner voice, agitated, yells, “You need quiet!”
By the grace of God or muse or some cosmic, mystic force powerful enough to quiet dogs, birds, airplanes and inner voices, I forget my excuses and settle into my writing. I scribble in cursive, my thoughts tumbling onto a blank page like Tinkertoys. I catapult sentences through the air with arrows, lines and sweeping X’s. Then, as the soft, beaming sun is slowly replaced by dancing, silver shadows, I circle several handfuls of cogent paragraphs and smile.
Showing posts with label The Muse. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Muse. Show all posts
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Sunday, February 12, 2012
A Spark of Inspiration
By Deborah Wright Yoho
People we know spark a writer's passion. My mother has been a puzzle to me since earliest childhood. Her name was Rose.
Mom never downsized, having resisted all my cajoling to please, please deal with her three bedroom house crammed to the rafters with stuff. She was a hoarder, perhaps not interesting enough to be featured on TV, but bad enough. Since she died eight months ago, I have been dealing with her leavings. Mom, why did you do this to me?
I started with her kitchen. In the refrigerator, packed wall to wall, top to bottom, lived twelve packets of sliced cheese, all of it outdated, the oldest moldy package two years old. In a cabinet, I found nine cans of expensive Melitta coffee, six bottles of olive oil, and five jars of gourmet orange marmalade. Mom, you couldn't afford to stock up on such things!
I don't think she did. I realize only now her memory was compromised long before her last hospitalization. How many times had I helped her put away bags of groceries? How often had I struggled to find room in that fridge? Yet it had never occurred to me she had been buying duplicates of favorite items she had already stashed away.
My mother was a collector. Angels and elephants, tablecloths, costume jewelry, five different sets of Christmas dishes, knick knacks from our travels. But plastic bags, bread ties, dried up ballpoint pens, hundreds of clothes pins? She had been using an electric dryer since 1967.
In her basement, Mom saved all our Samsonite suitcases. A family of Air Force vagabonds with three kids, we had a lot of suitcases; none of them had wheels. She also kept all the curtains she ever hung in more than a dozen different homes. I won't discuss her clothes, except to mention 82 pairs of shoes.
My mother's last ten years weren't so easy. You could tell by her stuff. She saved four diabetes glucometers and three blood pressure cuffs.
I am by now expert at solid waste disposal and recycling. Half a dozen charities recognize my car when I drive up. I know which brand of trash bags is the strongest and how to organize a garage sale (I made $600). I survived sore muscles, sleepless nights, and long-distance arguments with my brothers. I now suffer from myopia, having focused for weeks on handling, cleaning, sorting, folding, packing, lifting, loading, and unloading.
I left her underwear drawer for last, unable to touch her fragile, lovely lingerie. Underneath her sizeable collection of lacy slips, I found my reward, a photo album I had never seen before. Clinging to the faded pages, my parents, circa 1946 - before the kids, before they were married, before the moves, before all the stuff.
People we know spark a writer's passion. My mother has been a puzzle to me since earliest childhood. Her name was Rose.
Mom never downsized, having resisted all my cajoling to please, please deal with her three bedroom house crammed to the rafters with stuff. She was a hoarder, perhaps not interesting enough to be featured on TV, but bad enough. Since she died eight months ago, I have been dealing with her leavings. Mom, why did you do this to me?
I started with her kitchen. In the refrigerator, packed wall to wall, top to bottom, lived twelve packets of sliced cheese, all of it outdated, the oldest moldy package two years old. In a cabinet, I found nine cans of expensive Melitta coffee, six bottles of olive oil, and five jars of gourmet orange marmalade. Mom, you couldn't afford to stock up on such things!
I don't think she did. I realize only now her memory was compromised long before her last hospitalization. How many times had I helped her put away bags of groceries? How often had I struggled to find room in that fridge? Yet it had never occurred to me she had been buying duplicates of favorite items she had already stashed away.
My mother was a collector. Angels and elephants, tablecloths, costume jewelry, five different sets of Christmas dishes, knick knacks from our travels. But plastic bags, bread ties, dried up ballpoint pens, hundreds of clothes pins? She had been using an electric dryer since 1967.
In her basement, Mom saved all our Samsonite suitcases. A family of Air Force vagabonds with three kids, we had a lot of suitcases; none of them had wheels. She also kept all the curtains she ever hung in more than a dozen different homes. I won't discuss her clothes, except to mention 82 pairs of shoes.
My mother's last ten years weren't so easy. You could tell by her stuff. She saved four diabetes glucometers and three blood pressure cuffs.
I am by now expert at solid waste disposal and recycling. Half a dozen charities recognize my car when I drive up. I know which brand of trash bags is the strongest and how to organize a garage sale (I made $600). I survived sore muscles, sleepless nights, and long-distance arguments with my brothers. I now suffer from myopia, having focused for weeks on handling, cleaning, sorting, folding, packing, lifting, loading, and unloading.
I left her underwear drawer for last, unable to touch her fragile, lovely lingerie. Underneath her sizeable collection of lacy slips, I found my reward, a photo album I had never seen before. Clinging to the faded pages, my parents, circa 1946 - before the kids, before they were married, before the moves, before all the stuff.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
The Creative Process
By Laura P. Valtorta
As I begin writing a sequel to Carmen’s Universe – my novel about the future – I contemplate the pathway from idea to finished product. How does it happen for me? Some people read the newspaper for inspiration. I look inward and outward, at my neighbors, and in my shoe closet.
Step One – the Conflict. I have a complaint about my body, and it’s driving me crazy. My feet are too big. (Substitute butt, stomach, nose, ears, teeth, or whatever might bother a woman or man trapped inside the Merry Homemaker/Gold’s culture of the United States). Paranoia sets in. The shoe salesmen are laughing at me. The Gold’s Tiffanies are talking about me.
Some men might fret about a body part being too small. Women have the opposite problem.
Step Two—Solution. I create a fierce female character with large feet. She is 6 feet tall, Chinese and African, and she plays a musical instrument. The world is against her because of her feet, or so she believes. She gets fired from her job. Is it because of her feet or her attitude? She moves away from the city and forms her own orchestra. She falls in love with a suave attorney. She learns something about herself.
A novel is born.
Published books by Laura P. Valtorta:
Family Meal, published in 1993, Carolina Wren Press
Start Your Own Law Practice, published in 2006, Entrepreneur Press
Social Security Disability Practice, published in 2009, updated yearly, Knowles Publishing
Cavi -- a Novel about Italy, available as a PDF download at www.infinite- monkeys-pub.com
As I begin writing a sequel to Carmen’s Universe – my novel about the future – I contemplate the pathway from idea to finished product. How does it happen for me? Some people read the newspaper for inspiration. I look inward and outward, at my neighbors, and in my shoe closet.
Step One – the Conflict. I have a complaint about my body, and it’s driving me crazy. My feet are too big. (Substitute butt, stomach, nose, ears, teeth, or whatever might bother a woman or man trapped inside the Merry Homemaker/Gold’s culture of the United States). Paranoia sets in. The shoe salesmen are laughing at me. The Gold’s Tiffanies are talking about me.
Some men might fret about a body part being too small. Women have the opposite problem.
Step Two—Solution. I create a fierce female character with large feet. She is 6 feet tall, Chinese and African, and she plays a musical instrument. The world is against her because of her feet, or so she believes. She gets fired from her job. Is it because of her feet or her attitude? She moves away from the city and forms her own orchestra. She falls in love with a suave attorney. She learns something about herself.
A novel is born.
Published books by Laura P. Valtorta:
Family Meal, published in 1993, Carolina Wren Press
Start Your Own Law Practice, published in 2006, Entrepreneur Press
Social Security Disability Practice, published in 2009, updated yearly, Knowles Publishing
Cavi -- a Novel about Italy, available as a PDF download at www.infinite- monkeys-pub.com
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Tripping
By Laura P. Valtorta
Nobody needs an excuse to travel. It’s just a mind-blowing thing to
do. Marco, Dante, and I went to visit our daughter, Clara, and her
fiancé, Ross, over the Thanksgiving break. It was my second trip to
Texas and my first to Austin, the capitol city.
LANDSCAPE. From the airport to the University of Texas college campus
the ground seemed open, flat, and dusty. I expected to see tumbleweed.
The cab driver was taciturn until Marco asked about the football
stadium at UT that seats 102,000. The cabbie looked South American but
spoke American English.
We hiked in the northwest hilly region and encountered cacti and
mountain bikers. The landscape was littered with limestone.
Bonnell Park, with its 99 steps above the lake, was a good place to
view the Austin skyline, big-ass houses with pools situated on
handkerchief-sized lots, and modern architecture. We imagined that
Sandra Bullock lived there.
The weather was temperamental. One afternoon as Clara and I walked to
the grocery store, a front blew in. The temperature dropped from 80
degrees to 50 degrees in about 30 minutes.
AUSTINITES. We saw a good mixture of Anglos, Asians, Hispanics,
foreigners, and a loud family of Italian-Americans. Very few African-
Americans in sight. The school district where Clara and Ross live is
about 80 percent Asian.
Downtown, my favorite Texans were the cowboy metrosexuals: like the
tall, tan smiling white man who greeted us at Manuel’s restaurant and
made the five of us feel welcome. Lots of large Texan women at the
local Target.
ALLEGATO. On the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, we ate dinner at a
Japanese place that was not overly crowded. Japanese chefs, Japanese
waitress. Clara and I ordered sushi (tropical roll, spicy avocado
crab, and some other roll). It was possibly the best meal I have ever
eaten – certainly the best sushi. Ross, Marco, and Dante played it
[too] safe and ordered tempura.
DOWNTOWN. I could live in one of those apartments. The city needs
more public transportation. The sidewalks were wide, clean, and
inviting. All of the mendicants hang out alongside the highways. We
went to a hat shop; I purchased a hat for Dante.
Next visit – music at Antone’s! This place was recommended by the
taciturn cabbie.
IDEA FOR SHORT STORY. A cowboy metrosexual working at a Mexican
restaurant has a cheerful attitude toward life until he meets a woman
from South Carolina.
Nobody needs an excuse to travel. It’s just a mind-blowing thing to
do. Marco, Dante, and I went to visit our daughter, Clara, and her
fiancé, Ross, over the Thanksgiving break. It was my second trip to
Texas and my first to Austin, the capitol city.
LANDSCAPE. From the airport to the University of Texas college campus
the ground seemed open, flat, and dusty. I expected to see tumbleweed.
The cab driver was taciturn until Marco asked about the football
stadium at UT that seats 102,000. The cabbie looked South American but
spoke American English.
We hiked in the northwest hilly region and encountered cacti and
mountain bikers. The landscape was littered with limestone.
Bonnell Park, with its 99 steps above the lake, was a good place to
view the Austin skyline, big-ass houses with pools situated on
handkerchief-sized lots, and modern architecture. We imagined that
Sandra Bullock lived there.
The weather was temperamental. One afternoon as Clara and I walked to
the grocery store, a front blew in. The temperature dropped from 80
degrees to 50 degrees in about 30 minutes.
AUSTINITES. We saw a good mixture of Anglos, Asians, Hispanics,
foreigners, and a loud family of Italian-Americans. Very few African-
Americans in sight. The school district where Clara and Ross live is
about 80 percent Asian.
Downtown, my favorite Texans were the cowboy metrosexuals: like the
tall, tan smiling white man who greeted us at Manuel’s restaurant and
made the five of us feel welcome. Lots of large Texan women at the
local Target.
ALLEGATO. On the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, we ate dinner at a
Japanese place that was not overly crowded. Japanese chefs, Japanese
waitress. Clara and I ordered sushi (tropical roll, spicy avocado
crab, and some other roll). It was possibly the best meal I have ever
eaten – certainly the best sushi. Ross, Marco, and Dante played it
[too] safe and ordered tempura.
DOWNTOWN. I could live in one of those apartments. The city needs
more public transportation. The sidewalks were wide, clean, and
inviting. All of the mendicants hang out alongside the highways. We
went to a hat shop; I purchased a hat for Dante.
Next visit – music at Antone’s! This place was recommended by the
taciturn cabbie.
IDEA FOR SHORT STORY. A cowboy metrosexual working at a Mexican
restaurant has a cheerful attitude toward life until he meets a woman
from South Carolina.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
What I Learned in College
By Amanda Simays
I knew going in that college would be a growing experience, and sure enough, by the time I left, I’d picked up a whole slew of new life skills. I learned how to whip up an impromptu batch of chocolate chip cookies without a mixer, mixing spoon, measuring cup, or a cookie tray. I’d mastered the art of shaving my legs while wearing flip-flops and standing in dorm shower the size of a welcome mat. But if I could pick the one thing I learned that changed my life the most, it would be the skills I picked up as an English major…a deeper understanding of how to read and write.
Of course I didn’t enter my freshman year illiterate, but college transformed how I thought about reading and writing. I became fascinated with the way I could pick up a seventeenth-century poem, seemingly composed of stale words frozen for centuries on the page, and then by taking notes and writing about it, the text would magically come to life before my eyes, pulsing with energy and possibility. I used to think you did the learning first and then writing second, but in my undergraduate years, I learned how you can learn while you write.
I’ve always kept journals, but in college I developed a fuller realization of why I’m so addicted to the activity. It’s not just desire to have a written record of my life as it happens, but a desire for clarity. When I’m confused about anything, when I have a big decision to make, I always write about it, and somehow the translation into black and white letters on the page makes even the stickiest problems seem more manageable.
I learned that I—and humans in general—see life through stories and make up narratives all the time. This awareness added a whole new dimension to my journal-writing habit…I realized I was turning my life into a story, not just in my head, but in a much more literal sense, translating these random thoughts and real-life occurrences into concrete stories on the page. Likewise, when I set out to deliberately make up my own stories in the form of fiction-writing, I began to notice how, on some level, I was still using writing as a vehicle to puzzle out topics I wanted to better understand. My fiction is never strictly autobiographical—it’s too much fun to explore situations I’ve never been in with characters doing things I would never do—but the stories I write often become fun house-style distortions of the issues that are on my mind at the time of writing.
I still have so much to learn about the writing process and what it means to put words on the page, but I’ve come a long way in the last four years. The act of writing brings me joy for lots of reasons, not least of which being the magical power it has to bring sense and order (or at least a more understandable chaos) to the world around me.
I knew going in that college would be a growing experience, and sure enough, by the time I left, I’d picked up a whole slew of new life skills. I learned how to whip up an impromptu batch of chocolate chip cookies without a mixer, mixing spoon, measuring cup, or a cookie tray. I’d mastered the art of shaving my legs while wearing flip-flops and standing in dorm shower the size of a welcome mat. But if I could pick the one thing I learned that changed my life the most, it would be the skills I picked up as an English major…a deeper understanding of how to read and write.
Of course I didn’t enter my freshman year illiterate, but college transformed how I thought about reading and writing. I became fascinated with the way I could pick up a seventeenth-century poem, seemingly composed of stale words frozen for centuries on the page, and then by taking notes and writing about it, the text would magically come to life before my eyes, pulsing with energy and possibility. I used to think you did the learning first and then writing second, but in my undergraduate years, I learned how you can learn while you write.
I’ve always kept journals, but in college I developed a fuller realization of why I’m so addicted to the activity. It’s not just desire to have a written record of my life as it happens, but a desire for clarity. When I’m confused about anything, when I have a big decision to make, I always write about it, and somehow the translation into black and white letters on the page makes even the stickiest problems seem more manageable.
I learned that I—and humans in general—see life through stories and make up narratives all the time. This awareness added a whole new dimension to my journal-writing habit…I realized I was turning my life into a story, not just in my head, but in a much more literal sense, translating these random thoughts and real-life occurrences into concrete stories on the page. Likewise, when I set out to deliberately make up my own stories in the form of fiction-writing, I began to notice how, on some level, I was still using writing as a vehicle to puzzle out topics I wanted to better understand. My fiction is never strictly autobiographical—it’s too much fun to explore situations I’ve never been in with characters doing things I would never do—but the stories I write often become fun house-style distortions of the issues that are on my mind at the time of writing.
I still have so much to learn about the writing process and what it means to put words on the page, but I’ve come a long way in the last four years. The act of writing brings me joy for lots of reasons, not least of which being the magical power it has to bring sense and order (or at least a more understandable chaos) to the world around me.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
What Happened in Vegas...
By Deborah Wright Yoho
The last time I visited Vegas, the year was 1967 and I was fifteen years old. My family was passing through on our way to our new home in the Philippines. For an hour we ogled the bright lights of the Strip through the car windows, and I wondered why women wore high heels with their short-shorts as they teetered along on the sidewalks. We marveled at Frank Sinatra’s name on the marquee at the Sands, and then my parents scuttled us off to our beds at a small motel two blocks away from the hubbub.
Las Vegas today looks more like Disney on steroids than a playground for the Rat Pack. If it is possible to camouflage unbridled gambling and drinking to appear wholesome, the spin doctors of Vegas have done it. McDonald’s fits right in between the Paris and MGM casinos. You have to look closely to find a wedding chapel or an establishment advertising topless exotic dancers.
Ralph and I were quick to explain to everyone in South Carolina that we were visiting Las Vegas to attend my high school reunion, not to gamble. I had to hurry to clarify that I didn’t go to school there but overseas instead, and that Vegas was a destination venue rather than a pilgrimage to stoke the home fires.
I wasn’t that keen on looking up old boyfriends anyway, but wanted instead to promote my book, a memoir about high school days in the Philippines. So I hired a graphic artist to design a poster and a flyer to tote along on the plane.
The results were mixed. People seemed impressed that I was writing a book and were happy to reminisce with me, but I found we didn’t have the same memories! Why was I so surprised? I hadn’t realized that the Air Force base we lived on was large enough to provide such a rich diversity of experience. As I talked with people who remembered me and with many who didn’t, I frantically took notes.
On the red-eye flight back to South Carolina, I pondered whether to incorporate any of the stories I had heard into my tome. Abruptly I realized I am now faced with a new list of questions as I think about what to write: is my story just MY story, or is it really about a unique time and place? What’s more interesting, the things we all had in common there or the individual experiences that were different? At a distance of more than 40 years, can I trust my own recollections? And if I can’t, how significant are my own biases in relation to the purpose of the book? I thought I was nearly finished. Now I find I must start over.
Tom Wolfe said, “You can’t go home again.” He was right.
The last time I visited Vegas, the year was 1967 and I was fifteen years old. My family was passing through on our way to our new home in the Philippines. For an hour we ogled the bright lights of the Strip through the car windows, and I wondered why women wore high heels with their short-shorts as they teetered along on the sidewalks. We marveled at Frank Sinatra’s name on the marquee at the Sands, and then my parents scuttled us off to our beds at a small motel two blocks away from the hubbub.
Las Vegas today looks more like Disney on steroids than a playground for the Rat Pack. If it is possible to camouflage unbridled gambling and drinking to appear wholesome, the spin doctors of Vegas have done it. McDonald’s fits right in between the Paris and MGM casinos. You have to look closely to find a wedding chapel or an establishment advertising topless exotic dancers.
Ralph and I were quick to explain to everyone in South Carolina that we were visiting Las Vegas to attend my high school reunion, not to gamble. I had to hurry to clarify that I didn’t go to school there but overseas instead, and that Vegas was a destination venue rather than a pilgrimage to stoke the home fires.
I wasn’t that keen on looking up old boyfriends anyway, but wanted instead to promote my book, a memoir about high school days in the Philippines. So I hired a graphic artist to design a poster and a flyer to tote along on the plane.
The results were mixed. People seemed impressed that I was writing a book and were happy to reminisce with me, but I found we didn’t have the same memories! Why was I so surprised? I hadn’t realized that the Air Force base we lived on was large enough to provide such a rich diversity of experience. As I talked with people who remembered me and with many who didn’t, I frantically took notes.
On the red-eye flight back to South Carolina, I pondered whether to incorporate any of the stories I had heard into my tome. Abruptly I realized I am now faced with a new list of questions as I think about what to write: is my story just MY story, or is it really about a unique time and place? What’s more interesting, the things we all had in common there or the individual experiences that were different? At a distance of more than 40 years, can I trust my own recollections? And if I can’t, how significant are my own biases in relation to the purpose of the book? I thought I was nearly finished. Now I find I must start over.
Tom Wolfe said, “You can’t go home again.” He was right.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Sparse Space, Mighty Muse – Part II
By Lisa Lopez Snyder
Are you making stereotypes of your characters? Are they predictable? If so, you need to give them a good hard shake and see what falls out of their pockets. If you’re lucky, you’ll find something deliciously odd, dangerous, or scandalous. The goal here, folks is surprise. And surprise for we writers is good, very good.
That’s at least one of the thoughts I came away with from my workshop with Danzy Senna at Skidmore College this summer (see previous post for Part I). In several of the sessions, we reviewed more than a few manuscripts that had some scintillating prose surrounding the character, but there was the predictable narrative that never got away from itself, e.g:
She suggested reading some folk stories as a way to discover narrative strategies to strengthen your writing. “Notice the tone,” she said, “and study at the dialogue.” Using dialogue, she added, “helps you see more characters more clearly.” Folktales not only do this, but they use a framework that astounds not just us, but our characters, too. Here are a few that came out of that class:
• Nikolai Vasilievich Gogol’s "The Nose" http://h42day.100megsfree5.com/texts/russia/gogol/nose.html
• Italo Calvino’s Italian Folktales
• The Hebrew story about “the talking fish” that ran in The New York Times in 2003. http://query.nytimes.com/gst/fullpage.html?res=980DE0DE1F3EF936A25750C0A9659C8B63&scp=1&sq=Miracle?%20Dream?%20Prank?%20Fish%20Talks,%20Town%20Buzzes&st=cse
On another note, I should add that during my stay the faculty and my peers continued to expand our recommended reading list. Ah, that we should live as long to read all the good books our friends suggest! Here’s just a snapshot of several on my “to-read” list:
Novels
Bad Behavior - Mary Gaitskill
Letters to a Young Novelist – Mario Vargas Llosa
Short Stories
“Women in Their Beds” – Gina Berriault
“Hole in the Wall” - Etgar Keret
Non-fiction
Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers – Mary Roach
Enjoy!
Are you making stereotypes of your characters? Are they predictable? If so, you need to give them a good hard shake and see what falls out of their pockets. If you’re lucky, you’ll find something deliciously odd, dangerous, or scandalous. The goal here, folks is surprise. And surprise for we writers is good, very good.
That’s at least one of the thoughts I came away with from my workshop with Danzy Senna at Skidmore College this summer (see previous post for Part I). In several of the sessions, we reviewed more than a few manuscripts that had some scintillating prose surrounding the character, but there was the predictable narrative that never got away from itself, e.g:
A compulsive young man spends his day watching and calculating every minute[okay, fascinating], but nothing every challenged his compulsive habit, and nothing changed about him or around him; a little boy places a bowler hat on his head to make himself invisible because life at home gets pretty scary [intriguing, let’s keep reading], but he keeps doing this, no one does anything, and that’s all that happens.We’ve all done this! We get so into our characters and we love them, good or bad, but we don’t let anything happen to them to challenge them or transform them. Nothing pops out and hits them in the face. And to top it off, we may veer wildly off tone. Danzy explained this dynamic as the need to get a narrative strategy to help get inside your character, to get beyond the “clean and easy” (my term), and to get…well, “dirty” (her term). The idea, she said, is to get yourself out of your head.
She suggested reading some folk stories as a way to discover narrative strategies to strengthen your writing. “Notice the tone,” she said, “and study at the dialogue.” Using dialogue, she added, “helps you see more characters more clearly.” Folktales not only do this, but they use a framework that astounds not just us, but our characters, too. Here are a few that came out of that class:
• Nikolai Vasilievich Gogol’s "The Nose" http://h42day.100megsfree5.com/texts/russia/gogol/nose.html
• Italo Calvino’s Italian Folktales
• The Hebrew story about “the talking fish” that ran in The New York Times in 2003. http://query.nytimes.com/gst/fullpage.html?res=980DE0DE1F3EF936A25750C0A9659C8B63&scp=1&sq=Miracle?%20Dream?%20Prank?%20Fish%20Talks,%20Town%20Buzzes&st=cse
On another note, I should add that during my stay the faculty and my peers continued to expand our recommended reading list. Ah, that we should live as long to read all the good books our friends suggest! Here’s just a snapshot of several on my “to-read” list:
Novels
Bad Behavior - Mary Gaitskill
Letters to a Young Novelist – Mario Vargas Llosa
Short Stories
“Women in Their Beds” – Gina Berriault
“Hole in the Wall” - Etgar Keret
Non-fiction
Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers – Mary Roach
Enjoy!
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Sparse Space, Mighty Muse, Part I
By Lisa Lopez Snyder
Thanks to a generous scholarship I had an opportunity this past July to spend two weeks at the New York State Summer Writers Institute at Skidmore College in Saratoga Springs, N.Y. Describing the experience is akin to trying to express what seeing Yosemite Falls is like for the first time. Okay, so maybe that’s not the best way to illustrate my point, but the enthusiasm it generated might measure similarly.
Perhaps the most potent aspect of the Writers Institute is that it is truly a writer’s colony. In the midst of life’s madness, this gathering is a place where you can forget having to make a meal or clean a dish (you eat at the university dining hall), and just dive into the writer’s life all around you--every day. I was one of more than 60 writers who stayed in the dorms on campus and participated in fiction, nonfiction or poetry workshops.
During the first week my workshop (18 to a class) was led by Danzy Senna (http://blueflowerarts.com/danzy-senna), author of the phenomenal Caucasia and the autobiography, Where Did You Sleep Last Night? The second week I studied under Howard Norman, whose novel, What is Left, the Daughter (http://www.nytimes.com/2010/07/25/books/review/Wallace-t.html) will have you eager to explore the epistolary form. We had workshop three times during the week and on the alternative days all the groups came together for an afternoon discussion with other workshop faculty and visiting writers, who included Ann Beattie, Russell Banks, Joyce Carol Oates, Mary Gaitskill, Rick Moody, nonfiction writers Jim Miller and Geoffrey O’Brien, and poets Henri Cole, Jayne Anne Philips, Mary Kinzie and Peg Boyers. In addition to small group discussions with these authors about the craft of writing, we heard them read from their latest works later that night, and then on Sunday evening, we participants held our own public reading.
As a fiction writer, I came away with ideas on how to further explore character, dialogue and story. Ann Beattie talked about how “short stories can be like plays.” She urged us to “use dialogue to create situations” as well as to expose the raw, the “unredeemable” character. Emerging writers can be timid about exposing the “imperfect” character, Joyce Carol Oates said in another session. She reminded us, however, that “all great art is based on conflict.” Simply put, she added, “If you don’t want to upset your mother or father, you won’t be a writer. You can be a nice person, but you won’t be a writer.”
Henri Cole’s reading of his poem “Black Camille” struck me with the utter significance of word choice and how I might apply the lessons of poetry to my work. “What are you now but a blood-red palanquin of plucked feathers and silk airing in the sun?” he read one night. In the hush of the auditorium, I understood then, that the words we choose are not just for their rhythm or sound, but for their absolute urgency. And, we know that takes time. But it’s worth it, isn’t it?
Stay tuned for more in Sparse Space, Mighty Muse – Part 2 next week…
Thanks to a generous scholarship I had an opportunity this past July to spend two weeks at the New York State Summer Writers Institute at Skidmore College in Saratoga Springs, N.Y. Describing the experience is akin to trying to express what seeing Yosemite Falls is like for the first time. Okay, so maybe that’s not the best way to illustrate my point, but the enthusiasm it generated might measure similarly.
Perhaps the most potent aspect of the Writers Institute is that it is truly a writer’s colony. In the midst of life’s madness, this gathering is a place where you can forget having to make a meal or clean a dish (you eat at the university dining hall), and just dive into the writer’s life all around you--every day. I was one of more than 60 writers who stayed in the dorms on campus and participated in fiction, nonfiction or poetry workshops.
During the first week my workshop (18 to a class) was led by Danzy Senna (http://blueflowerarts.com/danzy-senna), author of the phenomenal Caucasia and the autobiography, Where Did You Sleep Last Night? The second week I studied under Howard Norman, whose novel, What is Left, the Daughter (http://www.nytimes.com/2010/07/25/books/review/Wallace-t.html) will have you eager to explore the epistolary form. We had workshop three times during the week and on the alternative days all the groups came together for an afternoon discussion with other workshop faculty and visiting writers, who included Ann Beattie, Russell Banks, Joyce Carol Oates, Mary Gaitskill, Rick Moody, nonfiction writers Jim Miller and Geoffrey O’Brien, and poets Henri Cole, Jayne Anne Philips, Mary Kinzie and Peg Boyers. In addition to small group discussions with these authors about the craft of writing, we heard them read from their latest works later that night, and then on Sunday evening, we participants held our own public reading.
As a fiction writer, I came away with ideas on how to further explore character, dialogue and story. Ann Beattie talked about how “short stories can be like plays.” She urged us to “use dialogue to create situations” as well as to expose the raw, the “unredeemable” character. Emerging writers can be timid about exposing the “imperfect” character, Joyce Carol Oates said in another session. She reminded us, however, that “all great art is based on conflict.” Simply put, she added, “If you don’t want to upset your mother or father, you won’t be a writer. You can be a nice person, but you won’t be a writer.”
Henri Cole’s reading of his poem “Black Camille” struck me with the utter significance of word choice and how I might apply the lessons of poetry to my work. “What are you now but a blood-red palanquin of plucked feathers and silk airing in the sun?” he read one night. In the hush of the auditorium, I understood then, that the words we choose are not just for their rhythm or sound, but for their absolute urgency. And, we know that takes time. But it’s worth it, isn’t it?
Stay tuned for more in Sparse Space, Mighty Muse – Part 2 next week…
Sunday, August 8, 2010
My Path to Inspiration
By Michelle Gwynn Jones
Whenever I tell someone that I am a writer their first question is always “What do you write?” I can see the look of confusion on their face, or horror in their eyes, as I tell them about my novel and the sequels. “Where did you get that idea?” is almost always their next question.
Some people find their inspiration in a country song, either the lyrics or the title. Others find their stories embedded in historical events and create a fictional character who was there. There are those who design the coolest spaceships known to mankind and unfold their stories in its travels.
I looked over the outlines I developed for the sequels to my novel, Daniel’s Law, and tried to remember exactly what I was doing at the time I thought of the story. I have never been able to point to anything so definite. What was the catalyst to its development? Nothing comes to mind. There were no great moments of epiphany while watching the news, attending a conference or getting a manicure which I can point to.
I do, however, remember the questions I asked myself that led to the storylines: Can citizenship be forced upon someone? How far is too far undercover? If murderers can’t inherit, can their children? Once I asked myself the original question I felt compelled to seek out an answer, sometimes with a quick Google, other times with weeks of devoted researching. It was not until I had an answers to my question that I realized this could be a story. There is always some subtlety in the law, some nuance in its interpretation, which lends it to a mystery.
While I have no idea what inspired my original inquiry I know that by the time I decided it could be a story it was well thought out.
Whenever I tell someone that I am a writer their first question is always “What do you write?” I can see the look of confusion on their face, or horror in their eyes, as I tell them about my novel and the sequels. “Where did you get that idea?” is almost always their next question.
Some people find their inspiration in a country song, either the lyrics or the title. Others find their stories embedded in historical events and create a fictional character who was there. There are those who design the coolest spaceships known to mankind and unfold their stories in its travels.
I looked over the outlines I developed for the sequels to my novel, Daniel’s Law, and tried to remember exactly what I was doing at the time I thought of the story. I have never been able to point to anything so definite. What was the catalyst to its development? Nothing comes to mind. There were no great moments of epiphany while watching the news, attending a conference or getting a manicure which I can point to.
I do, however, remember the questions I asked myself that led to the storylines: Can citizenship be forced upon someone? How far is too far undercover? If murderers can’t inherit, can their children? Once I asked myself the original question I felt compelled to seek out an answer, sometimes with a quick Google, other times with weeks of devoted researching. It was not until I had an answers to my question that I realized this could be a story. There is always some subtlety in the law, some nuance in its interpretation, which lends it to a mystery.
While I have no idea what inspired my original inquiry I know that by the time I decided it could be a story it was well thought out.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Setting: It's All in the Song Title
By Kimberly Johnson
I’m on the interstate (I-20 E) and I’m thinking about the topic for this blog. My radio’s on 97.5 FM and my AC is on 5. All of sudden, my foot starts tapping (the other foot that is not on the gas pedal) along to Tulsa Time by Don Williams. It got me thinking:
“What does Tulsa look like in the summertime?”
“Is it hot as Texas Pete hot sauce on a fried chicken leg?”
I mentioned that episode to get you to ponder the setting of your next fiction piece or nonfiction masterwork. Setting is the time and place in which a story takes place. The purposes are 1) to create problems for the characters, 2) to provide a background for the events and characters, and; 3) to help understand the characters and their conflicts. For me, setting is truly important; I spend considerable time conjuring the perfect city, state and zip code for my good and bad guys to duke it out in. Sometimes I feel like a production manager on a MGM musical from the 1940s.
As always, the Nashville sound is a great template to bring into play when you begin to write the backdrop for the next Great American Novel. So, the next time you are driving on the interstate, switch over to the country station. Think about how you can produce an action-packed plot or weave a tale of romance. For inspiration, try these songs, the drama is built into the titles:
All The Gold in California, The Gatlin Brothers, “…all the gold in California is in a bank in the middle of Beverly Hills, in somebody else’s name, so if you’re dreaming about California, it don’t matter at all where you played before, California’s a brand new game…”
Cowboy Casanova, Carrie Underwood, “…He’s a good time cowboy Casanova, leaning up against the record machine, looks like a cool drink of water, but he’s candy-coated misery. He’s the devil in disguise, a snake with blue eyes, and he only comes out at night ...”
Louisiana Woman, Mississippi Man, Conway Twitty and Loretta Lynn, “…See the alligators all a-waitin' nearby, sooner or later they know I'm gonna try. When she waves from the bank don't you know I know, it's goodbye fishin' line see you while I go. With a Louisiana woman waitin' on the other side, the Mississippi River don't look so wide…”
Alright, Darius Rucker, “…Don't need no five star reservations; I've got spaghetti and a cheap bottle of wine. Don't need no concert in the city, I've got a stereo and the best of Patsy Cline. Ain't got no caviar, no Dom Perignon, but as far as I can see, I've got everything I want…”
I’m on the interstate (I-20 E) and I’m thinking about the topic for this blog. My radio’s on 97.5 FM and my AC is on 5. All of sudden, my foot starts tapping (the other foot that is not on the gas pedal) along to Tulsa Time by Don Williams. It got me thinking:
“What does Tulsa look like in the summertime?”
“Is it hot as Texas Pete hot sauce on a fried chicken leg?”
I mentioned that episode to get you to ponder the setting of your next fiction piece or nonfiction masterwork. Setting is the time and place in which a story takes place. The purposes are 1) to create problems for the characters, 2) to provide a background for the events and characters, and; 3) to help understand the characters and their conflicts. For me, setting is truly important; I spend considerable time conjuring the perfect city, state and zip code for my good and bad guys to duke it out in. Sometimes I feel like a production manager on a MGM musical from the 1940s.
As always, the Nashville sound is a great template to bring into play when you begin to write the backdrop for the next Great American Novel. So, the next time you are driving on the interstate, switch over to the country station. Think about how you can produce an action-packed plot or weave a tale of romance. For inspiration, try these songs, the drama is built into the titles:
All The Gold in California, The Gatlin Brothers, “…all the gold in California is in a bank in the middle of Beverly Hills, in somebody else’s name, so if you’re dreaming about California, it don’t matter at all where you played before, California’s a brand new game…”
Cowboy Casanova, Carrie Underwood, “…He’s a good time cowboy Casanova, leaning up against the record machine, looks like a cool drink of water, but he’s candy-coated misery. He’s the devil in disguise, a snake with blue eyes, and he only comes out at night ...”
Louisiana Woman, Mississippi Man, Conway Twitty and Loretta Lynn, “…See the alligators all a-waitin' nearby, sooner or later they know I'm gonna try. When she waves from the bank don't you know I know, it's goodbye fishin' line see you while I go. With a Louisiana woman waitin' on the other side, the Mississippi River don't look so wide…”
Alright, Darius Rucker, “…Don't need no five star reservations; I've got spaghetti and a cheap bottle of wine. Don't need no concert in the city, I've got a stereo and the best of Patsy Cline. Ain't got no caviar, no Dom Perignon, but as far as I can see, I've got everything I want…”
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Writer's Paradise
By Tiem Wilson
The school year is coming to an end. The kids are going to Grandma’s for the ENTIRE summer vacation. What shall I do with myself? WRITE, WRITE, WRITE!!!
There will be no kids to yank out of bed and hustle to the bathroom. Instead, I can sit at the table to sip coffee from my SC Writers’ Workshop mug. The travel mug can stay in the cupboard. No dog in need of a morning walk. I can sit with the laptop out on the patio. No inhaling breakfast while packing lunches. I can digest the motives for the antagonist’s behavior. No racing traffic to beat the tardy bell. I can cruise through the history of why my character resents her mother. No homework to check. I can study the landscape of the hilltop my character sits upon when trying to unwind.
I am so excited to get started, I can hardly wait. I will begin the very first week the kids are gone. Well, first I need to use this opportunity to clean the bedrooms, professionally clean the carpets and maybe touch up the walls with fresh paint. I’ll get that out of the way first. Then I can focus solely on my writing.
Now that I’m thinking of it, I might as well put down the new tiles in the kitchen. With no distractions, it should only take a couple of days. New plan: clean the kids’ rooms, paint, lay new tiles… all done in one week. That’s still nine weeks left dedicated all to writing.
Come to think of it, I did promise myself to finish that scrapbook. No problem. I can finish the scrapbook in a week and still have eight weeks left. This is going to be the best summer ever. I will get so much done… housework, scrapbooking, and most important, writing.
I now have my routine planned out completely. One week will be spring cleaning and redecorating. Another week is dedicated to serious scrapbook time. One week will be late hours at work to finish up some of those projects early and free up some writing time for later. Another week is for family vacation. Don’t worry… I’m taking the laptop. (smiles) That’s still six good weeks of writing. Not bad, right?
I have it all laid out now. The daily routine will be to start with a cup of Joe, using the time to get the creative juices flowing and thoughts percolating. I’ll get in about 45 minutes of computer time before heading to work.
In the evenings, I’ll start with an awesome calorie-burning workout. Next, I’ll add in a little bike riding or a run. Then I'll have a nice relaxing bath and put in a call to the kids. After eating a healthy, balanced meal, washing the few dishes, ironing the work clothes for the next day, I’ll sit down at the computer with a glass of wine. The perfect writing regime!!
Summer is almost here. The kids are going away for the summer. What shall I do with myself? Procrastinate, procrastinate, procrastinate…
The school year is coming to an end. The kids are going to Grandma’s for the ENTIRE summer vacation. What shall I do with myself? WRITE, WRITE, WRITE!!!
There will be no kids to yank out of bed and hustle to the bathroom. Instead, I can sit at the table to sip coffee from my SC Writers’ Workshop mug. The travel mug can stay in the cupboard. No dog in need of a morning walk. I can sit with the laptop out on the patio. No inhaling breakfast while packing lunches. I can digest the motives for the antagonist’s behavior. No racing traffic to beat the tardy bell. I can cruise through the history of why my character resents her mother. No homework to check. I can study the landscape of the hilltop my character sits upon when trying to unwind.
I am so excited to get started, I can hardly wait. I will begin the very first week the kids are gone. Well, first I need to use this opportunity to clean the bedrooms, professionally clean the carpets and maybe touch up the walls with fresh paint. I’ll get that out of the way first. Then I can focus solely on my writing.
Now that I’m thinking of it, I might as well put down the new tiles in the kitchen. With no distractions, it should only take a couple of days. New plan: clean the kids’ rooms, paint, lay new tiles… all done in one week. That’s still nine weeks left dedicated all to writing.
Come to think of it, I did promise myself to finish that scrapbook. No problem. I can finish the scrapbook in a week and still have eight weeks left. This is going to be the best summer ever. I will get so much done… housework, scrapbooking, and most important, writing.
I now have my routine planned out completely. One week will be spring cleaning and redecorating. Another week is dedicated to serious scrapbook time. One week will be late hours at work to finish up some of those projects early and free up some writing time for later. Another week is for family vacation. Don’t worry… I’m taking the laptop. (smiles) That’s still six good weeks of writing. Not bad, right?
I have it all laid out now. The daily routine will be to start with a cup of Joe, using the time to get the creative juices flowing and thoughts percolating. I’ll get in about 45 minutes of computer time before heading to work.
In the evenings, I’ll start with an awesome calorie-burning workout. Next, I’ll add in a little bike riding or a run. Then I'll have a nice relaxing bath and put in a call to the kids. After eating a healthy, balanced meal, washing the few dishes, ironing the work clothes for the next day, I’ll sit down at the computer with a glass of wine. The perfect writing regime!!
Summer is almost here. The kids are going away for the summer. What shall I do with myself? Procrastinate, procrastinate, procrastinate…
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Need a Good Story? Listen to a Country Song - A Lesson in Conflict
By Kimberly Johnson
Country music songwriters are some of the finest writers. They immediately assemble the basic building blocks to a good story; elements that perhaps novelists sometimes fail to fully develop: setting, plot, conflict, character, point of view and theme. What key ingredient makes a Nashville hit? Conflict. That quarrel, that squabble, that moaning and groaning between characters; it’s the reason why the listener stays tuned and taps his foot.
The lyricist chooses from internal or external conflict to build his composition, employing one of the following conflicts to create tension and a great song: man vs. man, man vs. circumstances, man vs. society and man vs. himself.
Willie Nelson’s "Crazy" is a prime example of a good story, a lesson in conflict. Nelson pens the internal struggle of a woman who is distraught because her man doesn’t love her. He’s left her for another woman. Nelson’s lines examine the grief that the leading character harbors. The late Patsy Cline brings the story to life as she woefully croons...
Another good story with a lesson in conflict is Dolly Parton’s 1970s chart topper "Jolene." In this narrative, a woman (Dolly), tells the other woman (Jolene) to leave her man (Dolly’s husband) alone. Jolene, a red head beauty, is a home wrecker. Dolly begs Jolene to stop using her womanly ways to seduce her man. Dolly, the songwriter, cunningly reveals to the audience the reasons, and conflicting elements, why her man is in love with the other woman.
Country music songwriters are some of the finest writers. They immediately assemble the basic building blocks to a good story; elements that perhaps novelists sometimes fail to fully develop: setting, plot, conflict, character, point of view and theme. What key ingredient makes a Nashville hit? Conflict. That quarrel, that squabble, that moaning and groaning between characters; it’s the reason why the listener stays tuned and taps his foot.
The lyricist chooses from internal or external conflict to build his composition, employing one of the following conflicts to create tension and a great song: man vs. man, man vs. circumstances, man vs. society and man vs. himself.
Willie Nelson’s "Crazy" is a prime example of a good story, a lesson in conflict. Nelson pens the internal struggle of a woman who is distraught because her man doesn’t love her. He’s left her for another woman. Nelson’s lines examine the grief that the leading character harbors. The late Patsy Cline brings the story to life as she woefully croons...
I’m crazy for feeling so lonely, I’m crazy, crazy for feeling for feeling so blue. I knew, you ‘d love me as long as you wanted, and then someday, you’d leave me for somebody new…Worry, why do I let myself worry, wonderin’ what in the world what I did I do, oh crazy, for thinking my love could hold you, I’m crazy for trying, and crazy for crying…
Another good story with a lesson in conflict is Dolly Parton’s 1970s chart topper "Jolene." In this narrative, a woman (Dolly), tells the other woman (Jolene) to leave her man (Dolly’s husband) alone. Jolene, a red head beauty, is a home wrecker. Dolly begs Jolene to stop using her womanly ways to seduce her man. Dolly, the songwriter, cunningly reveals to the audience the reasons, and conflicting elements, why her man is in love with the other woman.
Jolene. Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene. I’m beggin’ of you not to take my man. Please don’t take him just because you can…your beauty of is beyond compare with flaming locks of auburn hair…I cannot compete with you, Jolene. He talks about you in his sleep and there’s nothing I can do to keep from crying when he calls your name. Jolene I can easy understand, how you can easy take my man, but you don’t know what he means to me. Jolene. Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene . Please don’t take him just because you can…
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Is It an Autobiography?
By Tiem Wilson
Have you ever read a novel and asked yourself: is this a real-life experience for the author? When you read about certain tragedies in a story do you find yourself wondering how much of it is a first-hand account? In your own writing, how much of yourself can you see reflected in the characters?
In a recent conversation with my nephew, this question was asked in reference to Blair Underwood, actor-turned-author. Underwood currently has two published novels featuring the character Tennyson Hardwick. Hardwick is a struggling actor. Thus, we pondered how much of Hardwick’s life is mirrored from Underwood’s own close encounters?
The same question was posed to Eric Jerome Dickey when he penned Between Lovers. It is a heart-felt story of a now bestselling author confronting the woman who left him at the altar early on in his career. The experience is so compelling you truly feel it is Dickey’s own broken heart bleeding on those pages. Based on the love scenes in all of his novels, my girlfriends and I have had many wine-induced conversations about the kind of lover Dickey must be in real life. We wondered when would he have time to write?
More recently, this question was answered by author Alice Sebold. I just finished listening to a production of The Lovely Bones on audiobook. In the author interview, Sebold revealed there is a common thread shared between herself and the main character, Susie. Sebold professed she was a rape victim at age 18. Although she obviously lived through her ordeal, she admited that a lot of herself came out as Susie’s character began to take form.
I have tried to pen an experience for a novel. I never get too far as I realize my life, at times, is quite boring. Therefore, I stick to characters that have exciting experiences I only dream of. It has been said that everyone has a story to tell. The quest then becomes turning that story into a never ending journey to pass down through the generations.
Have you ever read a novel and asked yourself: is this a real-life experience for the author? When you read about certain tragedies in a story do you find yourself wondering how much of it is a first-hand account? In your own writing, how much of yourself can you see reflected in the characters?
In a recent conversation with my nephew, this question was asked in reference to Blair Underwood, actor-turned-author. Underwood currently has two published novels featuring the character Tennyson Hardwick. Hardwick is a struggling actor. Thus, we pondered how much of Hardwick’s life is mirrored from Underwood’s own close encounters?
The same question was posed to Eric Jerome Dickey when he penned Between Lovers. It is a heart-felt story of a now bestselling author confronting the woman who left him at the altar early on in his career. The experience is so compelling you truly feel it is Dickey’s own broken heart bleeding on those pages. Based on the love scenes in all of his novels, my girlfriends and I have had many wine-induced conversations about the kind of lover Dickey must be in real life. We wondered when would he have time to write?
More recently, this question was answered by author Alice Sebold. I just finished listening to a production of The Lovely Bones on audiobook. In the author interview, Sebold revealed there is a common thread shared between herself and the main character, Susie. Sebold professed she was a rape victim at age 18. Although she obviously lived through her ordeal, she admited that a lot of herself came out as Susie’s character began to take form.
I have tried to pen an experience for a novel. I never get too far as I realize my life, at times, is quite boring. Therefore, I stick to characters that have exciting experiences I only dream of. It has been said that everyone has a story to tell. The quest then becomes turning that story into a never ending journey to pass down through the generations.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
My Muse in an Unlikely Place
By Kimberly Johnson
When I was in high school, I thought a muse for an artist or a writer was a zaftig, round-eyed lady lounging, semi-nude, on a chaise lounge. And for a female artist or female writer, the muse was a wooden bowl of fruit.
When I was in college, I considered the source of inspiration flowed from art history books and tales of Joyce and Keats accompanied with popcorn-filled nights of foreign films. Then I realized that a 500 year-old statue, a 200 page novel and a black-and-white reel did not motivate my fingers to dance on a keyboard.
When I was a journalist, I discovered that country music motivated me, period. It’s not because I live in the South. It’s not because country stations dominate the FM dial. It’s not because I watched Hee Haw on Saturday nights. It’s because the Nashville sound helps me in character development and plot structure. Think about it: that snake in Carrie Underwood’s "Cowboy Casanova" is a writer’s dream (or nightmare). I definitely dig Martina McBride and George Strait. I want to give literary shout-outs to South Carolina natives Josh Turner (Pamplico) and Darius Rucker (Charleston), formerly of Hootie and the Blowfish.
Below are some muse-worthy lines from songs that I downloaded to my iPod. By the way, that bowl of fruit, I ate it.
Tim McGraw, "Real Good Man"
Waylon Jennings, "Only Daddy That’ll Walk the Line"
Marshall Tucker Band, "Can’t You See"
Trisha Yearwood, "Wrong Side of Memphis"
Fleetwood Mac, "Dreams" I know. It is not a country song.
When I was in high school, I thought a muse for an artist or a writer was a zaftig, round-eyed lady lounging, semi-nude, on a chaise lounge. And for a female artist or female writer, the muse was a wooden bowl of fruit.
When I was in college, I considered the source of inspiration flowed from art history books and tales of Joyce and Keats accompanied with popcorn-filled nights of foreign films. Then I realized that a 500 year-old statue, a 200 page novel and a black-and-white reel did not motivate my fingers to dance on a keyboard.
When I was a journalist, I discovered that country music motivated me, period. It’s not because I live in the South. It’s not because country stations dominate the FM dial. It’s not because I watched Hee Haw on Saturday nights. It’s because the Nashville sound helps me in character development and plot structure. Think about it: that snake in Carrie Underwood’s "Cowboy Casanova" is a writer’s dream (or nightmare). I definitely dig Martina McBride and George Strait. I want to give literary shout-outs to South Carolina natives Josh Turner (Pamplico) and Darius Rucker (Charleston), formerly of Hootie and the Blowfish.
Below are some muse-worthy lines from songs that I downloaded to my iPod. By the way, that bowl of fruit, I ate it.
Tim McGraw, "Real Good Man"
Girl, you'll never know no one like me, up there in your high society. They might tell you I’m no good, Girl, they need to understand just who I am. I may be a real bad boy, but, Baby, I’m a real good man…I might have a reckless streak at least country mile wide, if you gonna run with me it’s gonna be a wild ride.This is an awesome portrayal of a roguish male antagonist in a romance novel. Move over Fabio.
Waylon Jennings, "Only Daddy That’ll Walk the Line"
Everybody knows that you been steppin’ on my toes, and I’m getting pretty tired of it, cause since you were a little bitty tiny girl… you got the only daddy that will walk the line…I’m comin’ unglued at your funny little moods.This country legend is best known for the Dukes of Hazzard theme song. Waylon is a master of the visible description; he does a fantastic job in lamenting about a woman who doesn’t appreciate his love. After listening to this, I would dash to the computer and bang away another chapter or two.
Marshall Tucker Band, "Can’t You See"
Gonna take a freight train down at the station, don’t care where it go…what that woman, oh, she been doin’ to me…Gonna find me a hole in the wall, gonna crawl inside and die.This blues-inspired song gets me to focus on structuring my chapters into coherent masterpieces. I mean, really, this man’s in pain. I understand it - I’m in pain because I can’t get the chapters quite right.
Trisha Yearwood, "Wrong Side of Memphis"
I’ve been living on the wrong side of Memphis, really breaking away this time full tank of gas and a '69 Tempest takin’ me to that Nashville sign no turnin’ back come too far headed down Forty with my old guitar…I’ve been living on the wrong side of Memphis gonna bronze these blue suede shoes, these cowboy boots looking kinda restless, they ain’t gottta single thing to lose.This is an inspirational song. Trisha’s from Georgia. I’m from South Carolina. She’s dreaming of the Grand Old Opry. I’m dreaming of New York. She made it. I will make it, too.
Fleetwood Mac, "Dreams" I know. It is not a country song.
Listen carefully to the sound of the loneliness of your heartbeat… to the stillness of your memories of what you had, what you lost…thunder only happens when it’s raining; players only love you when they’re playing.Can you sense the agony that Stevie is singing about? I’m not a big Fleetwood Mac fan, but, after hearing this song, I believe in the power of words.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
How Memories Can Provide Writing Material
By Suzanne Roberts
When you are searching for writing material, think about your childhood. Memories of your youth can supply a myriad of events to be used as topics. What uplifting experiences did you have when you were a child, and what are some of the sad events? List the happenings and think about which ones are the most important in your development as an adult. If you kept a journal or photos, these might help jog your memory.
If you plan to use your memories in a novel consider your goals. Do you want to describe a life that will inspire your reader or, perhaps, illustrate the effects of abuse and neglect?
I try to picture the happening completely, the sights, smells, sounds, my feelings, the unusual qualities of the event. I want to capture the moment and the essence of the people or animals. For example, after my cat, Squeaker, died, I thought about what an unusual but wonderful animal she had been. I wrote the following poem.
ENIGMA
Is her vision a hallucination?
Daringly bold or unbalanced?
Images of the unknowable
Waging war on her enemies,
Using her sixth sense to disclose danger,
A courageous crusader.
Her view of life
Fighting fearlessly against the norm,
Resisting the rational,
A regular Joan of Arc
Yet she exists
Cleverly as a cat.
Perhaps it seems strange to compare your cat to Joan of Arc, but to me, the poem captured Squeaker, a cat who showed affection for me but was so opposed to strangers that she frantically hissed at them, viewing them as enemies. To many of my friends, she was an unbalanced scary animal.
Consider the people you loved as a child and how they might inspire the reader. Make a list of their attributes. What made them special to you? How can you convey their essence to the reader?
I have a wealth of memories from my Uncle John and Aunt Bess’s farm, which thrilled me as a child. The farm had acres of land and a pond. Some of my memories include riding a large farm horse when I was eight-years-old; taking a bath in a bucket in the back yard with water pumped from a well; and getting chased by a bull.
Think about the years of your young adulthood. When I was in my early twenties, I was a social worker in the rural Georgia mountains, a job which enabled me to meet men and women who made illegal whiskey, people who seemed to be right out of the pages of James Dickey’s Deliverance, and some very wonderful individuals.
So, when you’re looking for topics, you can find so many happenings from your childhood. Think about your younger years and write!
When you are searching for writing material, think about your childhood. Memories of your youth can supply a myriad of events to be used as topics. What uplifting experiences did you have when you were a child, and what are some of the sad events? List the happenings and think about which ones are the most important in your development as an adult. If you kept a journal or photos, these might help jog your memory.
If you plan to use your memories in a novel consider your goals. Do you want to describe a life that will inspire your reader or, perhaps, illustrate the effects of abuse and neglect?
I try to picture the happening completely, the sights, smells, sounds, my feelings, the unusual qualities of the event. I want to capture the moment and the essence of the people or animals. For example, after my cat, Squeaker, died, I thought about what an unusual but wonderful animal she had been. I wrote the following poem.
ENIGMA
Is her vision a hallucination?
Daringly bold or unbalanced?
Images of the unknowable
Waging war on her enemies,
Using her sixth sense to disclose danger,
A courageous crusader.
Her view of life
Fighting fearlessly against the norm,
Resisting the rational,
A regular Joan of Arc
Yet she exists
Cleverly as a cat.
Perhaps it seems strange to compare your cat to Joan of Arc, but to me, the poem captured Squeaker, a cat who showed affection for me but was so opposed to strangers that she frantically hissed at them, viewing them as enemies. To many of my friends, she was an unbalanced scary animal.
Consider the people you loved as a child and how they might inspire the reader. Make a list of their attributes. What made them special to you? How can you convey their essence to the reader?
I have a wealth of memories from my Uncle John and Aunt Bess’s farm, which thrilled me as a child. The farm had acres of land and a pond. Some of my memories include riding a large farm horse when I was eight-years-old; taking a bath in a bucket in the back yard with water pumped from a well; and getting chased by a bull.
Think about the years of your young adulthood. When I was in my early twenties, I was a social worker in the rural Georgia mountains, a job which enabled me to meet men and women who made illegal whiskey, people who seemed to be right out of the pages of James Dickey’s Deliverance, and some very wonderful individuals.
So, when you’re looking for topics, you can find so many happenings from your childhood. Think about your younger years and write!
Sunday, August 23, 2009
The Thing
By Brian Butler
How many times have you sat down to write with that blank receptacle before you and yet nothing to plug into it? A common occurrence for many of us, I am sure, yet the passion to write continues to lure us. The void stares back at you, emotionless and cold, but still begging for input, silently crying for existence. And you possess the power to grant it, to create something out of nothing. Much like mad scientists, we as writers are drawn by the ability to conceive our own Frankensteins, giving birth through our fingertips.
When words are put to the page, the creature begins to take on unique characteristics, traits only this monster owns. As days pass and it is fed more and more words, it begins to stand on its own. It grows from its barren space to a starving infant craving nourishment and attention. It feeds relentlessly. Spawned from the depths of our brain, it becomes one of our offspring, developing a distinct personality blended from our experiences and imagination. We start to care for this…thing.
The monster continues to grow and becomes its own entity, gorging on our time. Its greedy voice speaks to us on an unconscious level as it evolves. We respond with all the love such a child needs to develop into a healthy adult. But soon, it becomes too large to contain.
To retain command, we assign schedules and ration its intake to keep the beast from spinning out of control.
The creature rebels.
It is used to over-indulging, taking all we can give. It has had no set of laws to follow to this point. With a life of its own, the progeny stops communicating, punishment for the application of rules. Alone, we slump into a state of apathy. The roles have reversed, and now instead of us being the care-giver, we look to our creation to fulfill our needs. We look for it to give in return.
But it doesn’t. It won’t. It can’t.
It is up to us to continue the relationship, to reconnect and finish what we started. Without us, creations such as these will never reach maturity. They will sit dormant in drawers and in closets and in dead computer memories. They will become abandoned orphans whose creators were too cruel to put them out of their misery.
Be a good parent. Stay in touch with your brood. Feed them incessantly at birth to bring them to a healthy life. Then mold them with subtle refinements. Yes, rules are necessary, but do not let them confine you or condemn your offspring. Instead use them as guidelines to bring your creations to success, where they can survive on their own, and be introduced to the world, not as a monster, but as a beautiful work of art for all to adore.
How many times have you sat down to write with that blank receptacle before you and yet nothing to plug into it? A common occurrence for many of us, I am sure, yet the passion to write continues to lure us. The void stares back at you, emotionless and cold, but still begging for input, silently crying for existence. And you possess the power to grant it, to create something out of nothing. Much like mad scientists, we as writers are drawn by the ability to conceive our own Frankensteins, giving birth through our fingertips.
When words are put to the page, the creature begins to take on unique characteristics, traits only this monster owns. As days pass and it is fed more and more words, it begins to stand on its own. It grows from its barren space to a starving infant craving nourishment and attention. It feeds relentlessly. Spawned from the depths of our brain, it becomes one of our offspring, developing a distinct personality blended from our experiences and imagination. We start to care for this…thing.
The monster continues to grow and becomes its own entity, gorging on our time. Its greedy voice speaks to us on an unconscious level as it evolves. We respond with all the love such a child needs to develop into a healthy adult. But soon, it becomes too large to contain.
To retain command, we assign schedules and ration its intake to keep the beast from spinning out of control.
The creature rebels.
It is used to over-indulging, taking all we can give. It has had no set of laws to follow to this point. With a life of its own, the progeny stops communicating, punishment for the application of rules. Alone, we slump into a state of apathy. The roles have reversed, and now instead of us being the care-giver, we look to our creation to fulfill our needs. We look for it to give in return.
But it doesn’t. It won’t. It can’t.
It is up to us to continue the relationship, to reconnect and finish what we started. Without us, creations such as these will never reach maturity. They will sit dormant in drawers and in closets and in dead computer memories. They will become abandoned orphans whose creators were too cruel to put them out of their misery.
Be a good parent. Stay in touch with your brood. Feed them incessantly at birth to bring them to a healthy life. Then mold them with subtle refinements. Yes, rules are necessary, but do not let them confine you or condemn your offspring. Instead use them as guidelines to bring your creations to success, where they can survive on their own, and be introduced to the world, not as a monster, but as a beautiful work of art for all to adore.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Writing as Catharsis
By Ginny Padgett
I think many writers benefit from the catharsis of writing. In fact, it’s probably a driving force for some. Recently, I made an interesting discovery about myself.
An upsetting incident presented itself to me; a dear family member was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s Disease. I couldn’t seem to tame the raw emotions that continued to wash over me. I hate being in that kind of emotional state and I wanted relief. My Muse spoke to me! Go write about it…in a POEM. I didn’t question the directive, but I was surprised because poetry is not my preferred writing genre.
I sat down at the computer and an hour later I had a poem I called “Elastic Love,” and I had left all the emotion on the page. I’m not saying how good it was, but it did the trick for me.
A few weeks later, another situation arose carrying the baggage of unpleasant emotion; a frustrating conversation with a friend who continually spouts a negative outlook. This time I didn’t hesitate. I felt a poem coming on. Again I had success…restored equilibrium and a poem I dubbed “Human Appliances.”
This is what surprises me. I don’t derive the same kind of catharsis from writing prose as I do poetry. I guess if I were to analyze this I could come up with a hypothesis to explain this phenomenon, but I don’t care. It works for me. I probably won’t submit these poems for publication, but I do enjoy reading them occasionally.
I am curious to know if you’ve discovered unexpected benefits from your own creative endeavors. Leave a comment.
I think many writers benefit from the catharsis of writing. In fact, it’s probably a driving force for some. Recently, I made an interesting discovery about myself.
An upsetting incident presented itself to me; a dear family member was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s Disease. I couldn’t seem to tame the raw emotions that continued to wash over me. I hate being in that kind of emotional state and I wanted relief. My Muse spoke to me! Go write about it…in a POEM. I didn’t question the directive, but I was surprised because poetry is not my preferred writing genre.
I sat down at the computer and an hour later I had a poem I called “Elastic Love,” and I had left all the emotion on the page. I’m not saying how good it was, but it did the trick for me.
A few weeks later, another situation arose carrying the baggage of unpleasant emotion; a frustrating conversation with a friend who continually spouts a negative outlook. This time I didn’t hesitate. I felt a poem coming on. Again I had success…restored equilibrium and a poem I dubbed “Human Appliances.”
This is what surprises me. I don’t derive the same kind of catharsis from writing prose as I do poetry. I guess if I were to analyze this I could come up with a hypothesis to explain this phenomenon, but I don’t care. It works for me. I probably won’t submit these poems for publication, but I do enjoy reading them occasionally.
I am curious to know if you’ve discovered unexpected benefits from your own creative endeavors. Leave a comment.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Untitled, Part I
By George Newport
Life consists of:
What you want.
What you need.
What you deserve.
What you end up with.
What you do with what you get.
I have been writing most of my life, I wrote stories in school and it seemed to be popular from the early grades, in our one room Vermont schoolhouse, with one teacher for all eight grades, on up to college, in college my classmates encouraged me to write more, I took more than one Creative Writing Class and you were only allowed one as I passed each one with a high grade, I wrote about my journal events, my dysfunctional and abusive childhood, the deaths of three of my younger siblings from abuse, I held Rhonda Jeans hand in the local emergency room as she bled to death internally from a beating, I tried to prevent Elaine Louises sexual abuse from one of the older adults and was unsuccessful, she ended up in a semi coma and died in her sleep one night, I saw William George run over, by Pop, because he would not stay out of the road on our little traveled, rural, backwoods, Vermont country road and Pop was trying to teach him or scare him to keep him out of the road, I drove, one at a time, four of my younger sisters over to New York state from Vermont, for abortions, from sexual abuse, as they were illegal in Vermont, these events were added to my daily journal, I drove tractor trailer coast to coast over the road, starting at age fourteen, for my Dad in his truck, a 1964 Mack cab-over with the largest turbo charged V-8 Mack engine and twenty speed transmission, when my Dad got me a license that said that I was ten tears older than I really was, I would drive the truck to high school on Friday and park in the school bus line, then I would try to get back for my classes on Monday morning, some of the girls in high school wanted to see my one stack Mack with the bedroom on the back, and some rode with me, more journal events of my life on the road,
To be continued next week
Life consists of:
What you want.
What you need.
What you deserve.
What you end up with.
What you do with what you get.
I have been writing most of my life, I wrote stories in school and it seemed to be popular from the early grades, in our one room Vermont schoolhouse, with one teacher for all eight grades, on up to college, in college my classmates encouraged me to write more, I took more than one Creative Writing Class and you were only allowed one as I passed each one with a high grade, I wrote about my journal events, my dysfunctional and abusive childhood, the deaths of three of my younger siblings from abuse, I held Rhonda Jeans hand in the local emergency room as she bled to death internally from a beating, I tried to prevent Elaine Louises sexual abuse from one of the older adults and was unsuccessful, she ended up in a semi coma and died in her sleep one night, I saw William George run over, by Pop, because he would not stay out of the road on our little traveled, rural, backwoods, Vermont country road and Pop was trying to teach him or scare him to keep him out of the road, I drove, one at a time, four of my younger sisters over to New York state from Vermont, for abortions, from sexual abuse, as they were illegal in Vermont, these events were added to my daily journal, I drove tractor trailer coast to coast over the road, starting at age fourteen, for my Dad in his truck, a 1964 Mack cab-over with the largest turbo charged V-8 Mack engine and twenty speed transmission, when my Dad got me a license that said that I was ten tears older than I really was, I would drive the truck to high school on Friday and park in the school bus line, then I would try to get back for my classes on Monday morning, some of the girls in high school wanted to see my one stack Mack with the bedroom on the back, and some rode with me, more journal events of my life on the road,
To be continued next week
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Untitled, Part II
By George Newport
I enlisted in the Army, at seventeen, by getting my older brother and his wife to pose as my parents and sign the necessary Army paperwork, I volunteered for Airborne duty and went to Jump School in Fort Benning, Georgia, then I volunteered for Special Forces training and qualified as a Green Beret, I went to Viet Nam, to work for the Intelligence Agency in illegal and secret projects in Cambodia and Laos after our government signed agreements to keep our troops out of these countries, my time in combat was just like being at home with my abusive parents, I transferred to different units in Special Forces to stay in Viet Nam from 1969 to 1973, I earned a number of awards and decorations which look real pretty on my dress uniform but represent the deaths of some of my teammates that as combat veterans we formed a special bond that is closer than brother and sister or even husband and wife, when my war ended, I did two years of Prisoner Of War and Missing In Action recovery in Cambodia and Laos, I was captured by the Pathet Lao but the war was over so I was not a Prisoner Of War, I managed an escape as getting me out would have been an international incident, I spent a lot of time with Psychatrists working on my Borderline Personality Disorder and my Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from my childhood abuse and my time in the military, I could pick out other abuse victims by watching them for a little bit and encouraging them to seek therapy for their childhood abuse and continued to council them about their abuse also, I continued to write about my life and the lives of the people around me, I changed the names to protect the guilty, I have a rather large manuscript that I have been trying to get published, the publishers want me to write a series and I do not think that I can do that so they refuse to publish my book as a single volume, so I continue to write about the dark side of life and death and maybe one of these days I will find a publisher who will work with me, I have belonged to a number of writers groups which has helped me immensely in my writing, e mail does not have a spell check, which I desperately want and need, the muse in me is constantly composing and I will sit down at the computer and write until I am done and then I have to go back and look at what I wrote to find out what it is about, that has been my writing style most of my life, I would not encourage anybody to set out to be a writer as it is a low paying job with little recognition with no future, go to medical school or law school, I was born handsome instead of rich, so I continue to fill pages with my writings and look for an outlet for my writing and hope that it is made into a movie some day as that is where the money is, my initial rough drafts are normally devoid of paragaphs and real puncuation and the first thing that I do is hit it with spell check, I should go back and edit this write, but I am going to send it off in its original format, as the ramblings of a muse inspired writer, then I will look at our writers group website to see what I have written, if it winds up in our blog
I enlisted in the Army, at seventeen, by getting my older brother and his wife to pose as my parents and sign the necessary Army paperwork, I volunteered for Airborne duty and went to Jump School in Fort Benning, Georgia, then I volunteered for Special Forces training and qualified as a Green Beret, I went to Viet Nam, to work for the Intelligence Agency in illegal and secret projects in Cambodia and Laos after our government signed agreements to keep our troops out of these countries, my time in combat was just like being at home with my abusive parents, I transferred to different units in Special Forces to stay in Viet Nam from 1969 to 1973, I earned a number of awards and decorations which look real pretty on my dress uniform but represent the deaths of some of my teammates that as combat veterans we formed a special bond that is closer than brother and sister or even husband and wife, when my war ended, I did two years of Prisoner Of War and Missing In Action recovery in Cambodia and Laos, I was captured by the Pathet Lao but the war was over so I was not a Prisoner Of War, I managed an escape as getting me out would have been an international incident, I spent a lot of time with Psychatrists working on my Borderline Personality Disorder and my Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from my childhood abuse and my time in the military, I could pick out other abuse victims by watching them for a little bit and encouraging them to seek therapy for their childhood abuse and continued to council them about their abuse also, I continued to write about my life and the lives of the people around me, I changed the names to protect the guilty, I have a rather large manuscript that I have been trying to get published, the publishers want me to write a series and I do not think that I can do that so they refuse to publish my book as a single volume, so I continue to write about the dark side of life and death and maybe one of these days I will find a publisher who will work with me, I have belonged to a number of writers groups which has helped me immensely in my writing, e mail does not have a spell check, which I desperately want and need, the muse in me is constantly composing and I will sit down at the computer and write until I am done and then I have to go back and look at what I wrote to find out what it is about, that has been my writing style most of my life, I would not encourage anybody to set out to be a writer as it is a low paying job with little recognition with no future, go to medical school or law school, I was born handsome instead of rich, so I continue to fill pages with my writings and look for an outlet for my writing and hope that it is made into a movie some day as that is where the money is, my initial rough drafts are normally devoid of paragaphs and real puncuation and the first thing that I do is hit it with spell check, I should go back and edit this write, but I am going to send it off in its original format, as the ramblings of a muse inspired writer, then I will look at our writers group website to see what I have written, if it winds up in our blog
Sunday, April 12, 2009
On Finding Time to Write
By Vikki Perry
As a business analyst with a software company, I love my job. No day is ever exactly the same. The job provides me with endless challenges, money to pay my bills, and a steady stream of character traits for my writing. (Like the Oracle of Corporate Speak. I have no story for him at this time so feel free to steal if you would like to.) What my job doesn’t provide me with is time to write. This is very frustrating for me as a person who wants to write constantly. Unfortunately, barring an unexpected lottery win or selling my book for a six figure deal, I don’t think I am going to get more time to write (not without sacrificing my ability to pay my bills).
That means I’m faced with choices about how to find the time to write.
Bad option: Wait patiently for the lottery win before pursuing my dream.
Good option: Write whenever I have a free moment.
I can always find five minutes to write something. The first paragraph of a blog entry. A character description. The next sentence in my novel.
Bad option: Wait until I retire before I write.
Good option: Start now.
If I had a nickel for every time that I’ve heard the phrase “I’ll write a book someday,” I could pay off my mortgage, which would put me much closer to the goal of writing full time.
Bad Option: Sitting paralyzed in front of the computer not writing anything.
Good option: Write bad prose when good prose won’t come.
The muse comes to those who are working. My muse is very fickle. She trots away for vacation in a warm sunny place during the depths of winter. She searches for cool mountain air to escape the heat and humidity of a South Carolina summer. I have to drag her back to Columbia by letting my fingers roll across the keyboard. Soon she’s back to work and good sentences are pouring onto the page.
You see, I can’t stop working at my “real” job, but I also can’t stop writing. The urge to create and to allow the characters that exist in my head to exist on the page is too strong. I have always loved to write, and I believe that if you truly love something, you will find time to do it.
What is stopping you from starting now? Your kids? Your job? Your spouse? I can tell you a dozen stories of writers who have become very successful while juggling very full lives. Think about what you do each day. I bet you can find time to do at least a little bit of writing.
As a business analyst with a software company, I love my job. No day is ever exactly the same. The job provides me with endless challenges, money to pay my bills, and a steady stream of character traits for my writing. (Like the Oracle of Corporate Speak. I have no story for him at this time so feel free to steal if you would like to.) What my job doesn’t provide me with is time to write. This is very frustrating for me as a person who wants to write constantly. Unfortunately, barring an unexpected lottery win or selling my book for a six figure deal, I don’t think I am going to get more time to write (not without sacrificing my ability to pay my bills).
That means I’m faced with choices about how to find the time to write.
Bad option: Wait patiently for the lottery win before pursuing my dream.
Good option: Write whenever I have a free moment.
I can always find five minutes to write something. The first paragraph of a blog entry. A character description. The next sentence in my novel.
Bad option: Wait until I retire before I write.
Good option: Start now.
If I had a nickel for every time that I’ve heard the phrase “I’ll write a book someday,” I could pay off my mortgage, which would put me much closer to the goal of writing full time.
Bad Option: Sitting paralyzed in front of the computer not writing anything.
Good option: Write bad prose when good prose won’t come.
The muse comes to those who are working. My muse is very fickle. She trots away for vacation in a warm sunny place during the depths of winter. She searches for cool mountain air to escape the heat and humidity of a South Carolina summer. I have to drag her back to Columbia by letting my fingers roll across the keyboard. Soon she’s back to work and good sentences are pouring onto the page.
You see, I can’t stop working at my “real” job, but I also can’t stop writing. The urge to create and to allow the characters that exist in my head to exist on the page is too strong. I have always loved to write, and I believe that if you truly love something, you will find time to do it.
What is stopping you from starting now? Your kids? Your job? Your spouse? I can tell you a dozen stories of writers who have become very successful while juggling very full lives. Think about what you do each day. I bet you can find time to do at least a little bit of writing.
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